


Da Capo Al Fine

by tellezara



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:32:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellezara/pseuds/tellezara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Rehearsal

The rehearsal hall was tucked away in an outer avenue of Los Angeles, but Miles Edgeworth got there with plenty of time to spare. It was in a former church and its sandstone frontage was dominated by a large set of wooden double doors with iron studs. The rehearsal wasn’t due to start for another forty minutes and he had planned to wait in the car until the other musicians had arrived, but as he parked he noticed that one of the wooden doors was ajar. He retrieved his oboe case from the passenger seat and locked up the car, loafers crunching on the gravel as he walked up to the ornate entrance with its stone saints that stood guard overhead. He looked up at them, noticing that one was a long-haired woman with a lute, and the other was an older gentleman working on some sheet music. Their names were inscribed beneath: _St. Cecilia, St. Gregory the Great._ The irony did not escape him, and it was with a wry smile that he climbed up the steps to the front doors. Putting his head through the crack he could see a small porch with a little door that lead into the church proper. This too was open, so he crossed the porch and slipped inside.

Rows and rows of seating stretched out in front of him, towards the array of organ pipes that took up the entire facing wall. The seating ended just before a small set of steps leading up to a raised stage where the priest would have lead Communion. Now the tabernacle was replaced by a semicircular array of chairs – that would be where he needed to sit, it seemed, for he spotted the conductor’s dais directly in front. There was so much space; such a change from the closed-in orchestra pits of the Broadway theatres.

He’d only ever played on the performance circuit before, and felt so glad to be out of that environment. The awful six month run of _Jerry Springer: The Opera_ had been the last straw – he’d hated every minute of it. The problem with turning professional was finding those first few jobs. It had been his dream to play in a top symphony orchestra but reality had landed him in the cliquey world of musical theatre, and the need to pay his rent had kept him there. A performance CV containing nothing but Broadway was not conducive to his attempts to escape the pits, and despite performing well at the auditions he’d been turned down by many large-scale orchestras. He had about given up hope at the time he’d auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, and when Mr. Gant had contacted him to say that he’d passed for a few seconds Miles thought there’d been a mistake. But no, it was true, and the last few weeks playing in _Jerry Springer_ were just about bearable as he counted the days until the Symphony returned from their latest tour. They were back in their home city to prepare some new pieces for their next trip, and he was to join their rehearsals starting today.

 _What will it be like?_ he wondered, looking up at the stained glass windows. One of the angels was playing on a flute. He hadn’t played in a classical orchestra since University, and had been resigned to spending the rest of his musical career being drowned out by the electric guitars and synthesisers that dominated the modern musicals. He still couldn’t quite believe he was standing here now.

A brash note interrupted the peaceful silence of the hall, and Miles jumped, scanning the seats for the source of it. There was nobody to be seen.

“Hello?”

His voice rebounded back on him, gaining extra harmonics from the echoes.

A head popped up from behind one of the seats. He had dark, spiked-back hair and was holding a trumpet mouthpiece to his lips.

“Oh, hi!” he said, lowering the mouthpiece. “Are you our new oboe player? You’re here rather early.”

“Yes, I’m the oboist,” Miles walked through the aisle between the seats and up the steps. “Miles Edgeworth,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re rather early yourself, are you not?”

“Phoenix Wright,” the man replied, shaking his hand. Miles caught a strong whiff of brass polish and wrinkled his nose. “Pleased to meet you, and sorry about the smell – I get here really early ‘cause of the buses, so I unlock the place and get my cleaning and polishing done before everybody else arrives. This stuff really stinks when I first put it on but it’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

“Oh, I see.” Miles laid his case on one of the chairs, as far away from the odour as possible, sat next to it and undid the clips.

The parts of his oboe lay nestled in crimson velvet, but the first thing he did was get a little canister out of the adjacent compartment. He opened it to retrieve a thin double reed, shaking off a few droplets of excess water before putting the flat end in his mouth to soften it further.

Reed still in mouth, he opened a flat box, taking out a delicate white feather. Only then did he begin taking the gleaming black and silver pieces of his oboe from the case, slowly but meticulously cleaning the insides of each with the feather before clicking the sections into place. Absorbed in this routine, it was a while before he realised Phoenix was watching him.

“Don’t you have your own instrument to put together?” he asked around the reed, a little irritated to have an audience for such basic maintenance work.

“Gotta wait for the polish to dry or I’ll get finger marks all over it. Very posh way of cleaning your instrument, I can tell you’re a professional!” Phoenix said, impressed.

“...What do you mean, ‘posh’? Don’t your other oboists do this?” Miles was a little dismayed – he’d have to give these people a talking-to when they were introduced. Cleaning cloths sufficed for clarinets but oboes had a thinner bore – a cloth could get snagged and trying to sort out that kind of tangle was a nightmare and worse, risked scratching the inside.

“Huh?” Phoenix looked a little blank.

“Your other...” Miles trailed off, taking the reed from his mouth to regard the trumpet-player with disbelief. “You don’t mean to say that I’m the only one?”

“Yup! You’re the first double-reed player I’ve seen since band in junior high, actually. They didn’t use fancy feathers or anything like that.”

Miles looked down at the feather in his hand, at the assembled oboe on the stand beside him. The only oboist in the orchestra? How could this be? He’d done some research on the group after being awarded the place – the woodwind section in the photos on their website had three oboists and the group filled the stage in the pictures taken at one of their concerts in Sheffield.

“Tell me,” he began weakly, “just how many people are there in this orchestra?”

“Well, let’s see...” Phoenix started counting on his fingers. “There used to be loads of us but LA Symphony began head-hunting people, and it’s difficult to find good players who want to travel.”

“So it’s not as large as I was lead to believe.”

“Uh, well, the guy who made our website joined LA Symphony so yeah, the photos on there might be a bit out-dated,” he finished counting. “There’s fifteen of us now, including you.”

“ _Fifteen_? That’s it?” Miles couldn’t believe it. The orchestra at his university had double that number just in woodwind players, never mind the other sections. How could a group that small produce any decent music?

“Well, it’s thirteen, really,” Phoenix corrected himself. “For rehearsals, anyway. Larry and Franziska only turn up for the last two before the concert – Larry’s out with some girl or another most of the time we’re touring, and Franziska’s always measure-perfect so she thinks she doesn’t need to bother. And during the concerts it’s fourteen ‘cause Mike gets stage-fright and can’t get a note out of his trumpet half the time.”

Miles shook his head, bewildered. What kind of ‘symphony orchestra’ was this?

“But hey, being small has its advantages. We’re a happy little family for the most part and we play well together,” Phoenix grinned. “And we fit neatly into a minibus so we can perform in smaller halls – our concerts sell out everywhere we go and we get tons of bookings.”

“Hellooo,” someone else had entered the hall and their greeting echoed back from the eaves. “Ah, it’s great to be back in here again, isn’t it, Pearly? The acoustics are so amazing.”

A slight girl with long, jet-black hair was walking towards them, dressed in the kind of garb Miles had seen in the windows of New Age shops in the malls. A much younger girl followed behind her, dressed in a similar outfit and lugging a large cello case with both hands as she edged sideways, trying not to bump the seats. The cello case was bigger than she was and she could barely see where she was going.

“Hi, you two!” Phoenix waved to them.

“Do you need a hand with that cello of yours?” Miles called out to the older girl. “You shouldn’t leave that little girl to carry it all by herself.”

She stopped for a second, looking at him with surprise, and her friend bumped into her with the cello case.

“Aah, sorry, Maya!” the little brown-haired girl tottered backwards. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, Pearly,” Maya laughed. “Look, the new oboe guy is here – we should introduce ourselves! I’m Maya,” she curtseyed, badly, “and this is my younger cousin, Pearl. It’s her cello and she won’t let anybody else carry it. I play violin, see?” she turned around, showing the violin case that was slung across her back.

Miles stared at the younger girl, momentarily forgetting his manners. Surely she didn’t play the cello for this orchestra? She couldn’t be much older than about eight or nine. Things were getting stranger by the minute. Then he regained his composure and nodded to them politely, introducing himself in return.

“Pearls has only been playing with us for a couple of months – she can spin a great melody on that cello of hers,” Phoenix explained, then dropped his voice. “She was made a ward of the state after some, er, stuff. Her Mum was our cellist before then... well, ‘til she got taken away by the police in the middle of _The Sorcerer’s Apprentice_. Pearls lives with Maya now, she doesn’t have any other relatives.”

Miles nodded, wondering how many more bewildering people he was going to meet before he’d finished tuning up.

The next to arrive was Dick Gumshoe. He didn’t even have an instrument case, he carried his tuba in a black bin liner closed up with sticky-tape, and when it was out in the light Miles could see that it was covered in grime.

“Good God, has that EVER seen a dustcloth or can of polish?” he burst out, losing his usual reserve at the sight of such a dirty instrument. “That’s terrible!”

“It’d fall apart if it did, wouldn’t it, Dick?” Phoenix joked, and the man in the tatty greatcoat winked in reply.

Miles was about to protest further but Phoenix shook his head at him.

“Even our conductor’s given up telling him to clean it – he always forgets, and it doesn’t matter anyway because he sits at the back,” he explained. “Mr. Gant picked him up off the busking circuit, same as me, and he plays more than well enough to compensate for his dirty tuba. You can always trust him to keep time, no matter what happens – even when the police came for Pearl’s Mum, Dick kept on playing so Diego took up her bass line and we just carried on.”

Miles watched Dick work the water key of his tuba over a bucket, turning away as what sounded like gallons of horn spit gushed into it. He shuddered and picked up his oboe to examine it, still sucking on his reed. It was spotless, and that made him feel a bit better.

The hall was beginning to fill with sound: violin and cello strings being rapidly tuned one by one and then in pairs, the parping of Dick’s tuba, and Miles himself had slotted the reed into his oboe, playing an experimental A. The reed was still a little cold, so it went back into his mouth.

A waist-coated man with a goatee arrived, swigging from a thermos and dragging a large double-bass case on wheels down the aisle.

“Diego,” he said to Miles as he walked past to take up his position on the right hand side. He smelt strongly of coffee. “Yours?”

“Miles,” he extended his hand but Diego was already opening the big case to extract the bass, which was crafted from beautiful cherry wood with a deep lustre from the thick coats of varnish.

“Save those hands of yours for playing, if I were you,” he murmured. “Lana Skye is a hard taskmaster.”

“She’s our slavedriver... ahem, conductor,” Phoenix had finally picked up his trumpet, which shone right down to the last valve.

Miles hated the trumpet as an instrument, but he knew when he was looking at a good one. It was one of the brushed metal types, and the ease with which Phoenix was depressing the buttons as he waggled his fingers showed he took very good care of it. Dick’s dirty tuba seemed to be the only proverbial black sheep in the group – Maya’s violin and Pearl’s cello were also fine examples of their type and probably cost a lot of money to buy.

More people were arriving. A ditzy-looking girl with horn-rimmed glasses sat next to Pearl with her viola and managed to break a string on it before she’d even started tuning up.

(“She ran over her viola with her own car, once,” Phoenix whispered. “But hey, it’s Maggey, these things happen to her.”)

Two girls with their backs to him began unpacking their flutes. Miles was glad to see them - at last, more woodwind players! When they turned to sit down he realised they were completely identical, apart from hair colour. He watched them tune up, wondering if they’d both chosen to learn flute of their own accord or whether they’d simply copied each other.

(“The dark-haired girl is Iris, she’s lovely but very shy. The redhead is Dahlia. Don’t bother trying to talk to her, she won’t speak to anybody apart from her sister. I think she hates the rest of us because she auditioned for LA Symphony and didn’t get in so she’s stuck with us. Iris actually got an invite from them but she’d never leave her sister...”)

A woman with long brown curls, dressed in a coat with swirling staves of music embroidered on it and wearing a hat with a treble-clef sticking out of the top, sat next to the other string players and got out her violin.

(“Angel Starr. She used to be one of the top violinists over at LA Symphony but, uh, let’s just say the conductor wasn’t too happy to find out he was just one of her many lovers-”)

“Do you mind?” Miles said exasperatedly – he was getting sick of Phoenix’s little asides. “I’m trying to tune and I can do without having the life stories of your fellow musicians whispered in my ear.”

Phoenix raised his eyebrows at him.

“You’re a pretty serious sort, aren’t you?” he said.

“Orchestras should be about making music, not mindless gossip.”

Phoenix shrugged and began oiling the valves of his trumpet. He didn’t say anything else. Miles sighed, regretting the snappy comment. He’d managed to avoid most of the petty wars in the pit during _Jerry Springer_ by ignoring the other players and not sharing in this kind of chitchat, and in a larger orchestra he could have just gotten on with the business of playing without having to worry about navigating the social minefield. This group was much smaller and he had to admit that it would be hard to avoid talking to them at some point after the basic introductions, especially on tour. He’d worked hard to get a place here, and if he wanted to keep it he would have to fit in as best he could... or else it would be back to Broadway.

There was a crash and he looked up – a gangly youth in his late teens to early twenties had dropped his trumpet case in the aisle and it had broken open.

“Oh no!” the man exclaimed, dropping to his knees and crawling under the chairs to retrieve the mouthpiece that had rolled away to the other side.

A very tall, broad-shouldered man with bristling sideburns and carroty hair that stuck out in all directions had also just arrived. The youth had gotten stuck somehow underneath the chairs and the big man bent down and grabbed his feet, hauling him back out.

“Th-thankyou, Mr. Powers!” he gabbled, hurriedly grabbing the trumpet case and closing it, running up to sit next to Phoenix.

Mr. Powers joined them, smiling at the youth, who Miles presumed was the Mike that Phoenix had mentioned earlier. Mr. Powers towered above the other two and was getting out a French horn. Miles groaned inwardly when he saw a man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Western striding up the aisle with a trombone in hand. The brass section outnumbered woodwinds nearly two to one.

“Are there any more woodwind players to come?” he asked Phoenix.

“Ah, that would be gossip, now, wouldn’t it?” Phoenix winked, tapping the side of his nose.

“Look, I didn’t mean to come across so strongly with that comment... I just-“

“It’s okay, honest, I’m only teasing,” Phoenix replied quickly. “Don’t feel bad - Lana said you were fresh from Broadway, and I guess you’d be a bit wary of loose talk with all the backstabbing that goes on there. I should’ve thought of that when I was telling you all that stuff, so, uh, my apologies.”

Miles had grabbed a bit of cleaning paper from his case, slotting it beneath one of the keys on his oboe. It didn’t really need cleaning, but the conversation had turned a little uncomfortable with these mutual apologies and he didn’t know what to say.

“You’ll get to know all the stories anyway,” Phoenix continued, trying to fill the awkward silence between them. “We’re pretty open when we’re chatting, what with being on tour together so much. You’ll probably find it a bit strange at first, after all the cloak and dagger stuff at the theatres, but you’ll get used to it. When I was out busking I met a guy who’d chucked in Broadway – he told me some horrible stories; I don’t know how anyone can hack it.”

“Er,” Miles wasn’t sure how to react to that. “You learn to avoid it,” he said slowly.

Phoenix was looking at him, and Miles could tell that he’d inferred a lot of information from the reply he’d just given. Miles turned back to his oboe, trying to think of any other things he could do until the rehearsal started to avoid further conversation.

“There’s just Ema Skye to come, she plays clarinet,” Phoenix said, finally answering his question. “Though Larry will be there with his for the concerts. You’re sitting in the wrong place, by the way – you’re next to the twins, in front of us, and Ema will sit next to you.”

Miles’ eyes widened at this and he turned to look at the empty chairs to his right side. Phoenix would be sat directly behind him. How was he supposed to hear his own notes with a trumpet blaring in his ear?

“In front?” he said incredulously. “But, you’ll drown us out-“

“Nah, we won’t, we can play quietly,” Phoenix said, slotting in his mouthpiece and playing a very loud, flat G - it sounded awful, and when he began changing his embrouchre the pitch resembled the racket made by a runaway lawnmower. Mike joined in and Miles had to cover his ears.

“Quietly?” Miles had to shout to make himself heard over the two trumpets as Maya gave them the correct note to tune to. “I’ve never met a brass player capable of _mezzoforte_ , never mind _piano_!”

“What?” Phoenix yelled as Pearl played a B-flat for Jake Marshall to match his trombone to. “Can’t hear you!”

“I said, I’ve never met a brass player capable of _piano_ -“

“Well yeah, that’s ‘cause we play brass, not piano,” Phoenix adjusted his mouthpiece and tuning slide, playing a better G.

Miles gave up, putting the reed back in his oboe and trying to hear his own A amongst the cacophony. Where was the damn conductor?

Abruptly the noise ceased and he could hear his own A play on. He closed his eyes in relief, listening to the familiar, mellow sound his oboe produced when the reed was warmed up and everything was in kilter. He rippled through a few scales before settling back on A again – no watery notes, no air leaking... perfect.

He opened his eyes to see a hand, index finger and thumb joined, zipping across his line of sight, and he responded immediately to the gesture by abruptly silencing the note. Intense brown eyes framed by curtains of matching colour hair were drilling him into his seat. Lana Skye.

“Silence is golden when the conductor commands it. Remember that, Miles Edgeworth,” she said curtly, turning her back on him and walking to the front, the rest of the orchestra waiting quietly for her to speak. She was dressed in military regalia reminiscent of a Naval captain, but she had such an incredible presence that the odd choice of attire merely enhanced her authority.

They’d had stopped playing because she had entered the hall, and he’d gone on trilling away like a fool. Everyone was looking at him, amused expressions on their faces, and the shame of it burnt his cheeks pink. He didn’t notice the younger girl who’d slipped into the seat next to him until she tapped him on the shoulder and waved, quickly assembling her clarinet.

“Have you enjoyed your time off?” Lana addressed them.

They nodded in reply.

“Good. Now, new pieces,” she held up a folder thick with sheet music. “Next month we shall commence a new tour – starting in Los Angeles as usual, and moving on to Hanover from there. You will be playing Faure’s _Pavane_ , the _March_ and _Russian Dance_ from Tchaikovsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_ -“

Phoenix groaned quietly.

“Shut up, Wright. You survived the Paganini last year without fainting and this piece has more breath marks, so no more complaints - understood?”

“Yes, Ms Skye.”

“Bach’s _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_ ,” she continued, ignoring the looks of despair on Maya and Maggey’s faces, “and Copland’s _Appalachian Spring_.”

Dahlia and Iris exchanged glances, and Dahlia nodded to her sister, who raised her hand.

“Which movement?” she asked.

“All of it.”

“All twenty-five minutes of it?” Maya bit her bottom lip. It was a beautiful but horrendously difficult piece for strings and woodwind alike; the Bach Fugue was easy by comparison.

“You’re more than capable of it,” Lana said briskly. “We’ve only done single movements from pieces in the past. It’s about time we attempted something of this scale and gave our paying listeners something worth hearing. No more objections – you will practice hard and play it well. Now, the solo rotations are as follows,” she began reading a list of names and pieces together with the concert at which they’d be playing it. Miles was surprised to hear his name.

“You’re up first, lucky you,” Phoenix’s voice by his ear was nearly inaudible. “Looks like they want to show you off. Unusual choice of piece, mind. Lana doesn’t normally go for -“

“Wright!” Lana said dangerously. “Open your mouth when I’m talking again and I’ll change your solo.”

Phoenix froze mid-sentence, shrinking back into his seat. He’d been forced to play Grieg’s _The Hall of the Mountain King_ last year and the awful triplets had left him with sore lips for days afterwards.

“You’re doing the Ennio Morricone piece because Mr. Gant likes it,” she told Miles, then carried on with the rest of the list.

Miles shrugged – he didn’t mind. He’d never seen the old film that _Gabriel’s Oboe_ was composed for, but the solo was very moving when played right, and he was looking forward to getting to grips with it.

Lana handed out the sheet music and had them all tuning up in an orderly fashion, then the rehearsal began in earnest.

==

“Hey, Miles,” Phoenix said as he packed up his trumpet. “We’re all going out to grab some supper, do you wanna join us?”

“No, I must go home and practice,” Miles replied, stowing his reed back in the canister of water and snapping the lid shut.

“Practice?” Phoenix spluttered. “You’ve just _done_ three hours of practice – your fingers must be dropping off by now. Come on, come out with us. You must be hungry, surely!”

“I’ll grab something on my way home. See you Wednesday,” Miles closed up his oboe case and went down the steps, exiting the church.

“He’s an odd one, isn’t he, Nick?” Maya said, watching him go. “He’s pretty good though, he had that section in Pavane down pat within two run-throughs. Not much of a talker though.”

“I think he had a bit of a bad time on Broadway,” Phoenix said thoughtfully. “Did you see the look on his face when he went up to Lana just now to get the sheets for his solo? He was trying to hide it, but he looked pleased.”

“Pleased? Well, good for him – I’ve gotta learn _The Entry of the Queen of Sheba_ for Madrid,” Maya made a face. “I wish the rotten Queen had stayed outside, the string-crosses on that are _horrible_.”

“I don’t know if he’s had much of a chance to play solo before. I mean, on Broadway, there’s nearly always someone singing along, or the whole group is playing. And even then, you’re tucked away out of sight in the pit or behind some scenery – that’s really different to playing in a concert setting. I’d be excited if it were me.”

“Listen to you, Mr. Freud!” Maya teased. “What’s with the deep psychoanalysis?”

“Get a move on, little kitty,” Diego bumped her with his double-bass case. “Never go home without having drunk one last cup of coffee, that’s one of my rules.”

“Never mind coffee, I’m starved!” Dick declared, and the little gaggle of musicians left the church, Phoenix locking the doors behind them.


	2. Making the Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A midi version of Air on G String is available here:  
> http://www.virtualsheetmusic.com/downloads/Bach/AirTrFree.html

On Wednesday Miles was there even earlier – this time he barely spoke to Phoenix, setting up his instrument in silence. Phoenix glanced up at him occasionally while buffing up the shine on his trumpet, already tuned with the intention to practice his solo before everybody else arrived. This was forgotten for the more intriguing occupation of watching the man sitting in front of him. Miles was warming up his reed and had the sheet music for his solo on the music stand, already covered with pencil annotations. Phoenix only recognised a few of the symbols – he had to get Maya to translate most of the formal markings on his own sheet music. Miles had been busy over the last few days, it seemed, and Phoenix was about to open his mouth to comment on it when Miles began to play. 

The words died on his tongue unsaid as he listened, amazed. Miles’ solo was note perfect - the melody was soft but expressive and the longer notes thrummed with vibrato, something Phoenix had never thought a double-reed instrument would be capable of. He got out of his seat, crossing around to the front in order to get the full impact. Miles didn’t even notice – his eyes were on the sheet music, flicking from bar to bar and then back to the beginning of the next staff. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his brow was furrowed in concentration, trying to extract every last nuance from the notes.

“Have you even slept these past two nights?” Phoenix asked when the last note had faded away.

Miles looked up at him, but his eyes weren’t really on Phoenix’s face – they were distant, his thoughts elsewhere.

“Miles!”

“What?”

“You didn’t even hear my question, did you?”

“Yes, I slept.”

“Not much, by the looks of things.”

“And? Can I not choose my own waking hours?” he sounded annoyed.

“Well, it’s no good coming into rehearsals looking like a zombie,” Phoenix pointed out. “You should at least splash some cold water on your face or something. Why are you up late practicing anyway? You’ve only just got the sheet music and the concert’s not for another six weeks.”

“Six weeks goes by very quickly.”

“You’ll have it ready in a week, the way you’re going,” Phoenix shook his head. “You shouldn’t burn yourself out like that, it’s not good for your health. Maya stayed up all night practicing her first solo because she was so worried about it and-“

“But I’m not worried,” Miles cut him off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing.”

“...I see. So you do this a lot, huh?”

“Why should it matter to you?” Miles replied guardedly. “You’re a brass player, you have nothing to do with the woodwind section.”

Phoenix gave him an odd look.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked. “We look out for each other here, section doesn’t come into it. I’m just saying that, well, you’re a good player – that’s pretty obvious from how you handled our new songs yesterday; Lana barely got you to change anything. And going off that, why would you need to practice your solo so much this early on? I mean, it sounds fantastic already.”

“To an uneducated ear, perhaps,” Miles was dismissive, “but to one who appreciates the true capabilities of the oboe, there are still many changes to be made.”

Phoenix felt the sting of that comment and bit back an indignant reply. He was trying to _help_ , but Miles wasn’t getting the message. Thinking he’d come across wrongly with his choice of phrasing, he tried a different tack.

“Okay, fine, so I’m no classical music expert. But all the same, I don’t think you’ve completely caught on to how things run here. I’m giving you advance warning, that’s all: it’s hard graft, playing in this orchestra, I’m not denying that – but it’s not a good idea to practice as intensively as you are right now because in the end it doesn’t do any-”

“Don’t you patronise me, _trumpet player_ ,” Miles snapped. “You don’t know anything about the oboe, so who are you to tell me how to rehearse?”

Phoenix was startled by the angry rejoinder, but was quick to extract its meaning and his face turned hostile. He stepped right up to Miles, standing over him with hands on hips.

“I might be a scummy _trumpet player_ , Miles Edgeworth” he said hotly, “but I’m still a human being capable of picking up on things. I’ve seen how you play – you bury yourself in the music in order to produce that amazing sound. You barely said a word to me before then, you were that focused on setting up and getting to work. You’re a brilliant player, but if you practice day and night and withdraw into yourself like this, you’ll just be music and nothing else. That’s not how this orchestra works. That’s what I’m trying to tell you - if Lana sees you like this, she’ll send you home!”

As his last words rang out Miles paled.

“...Send me home?” he said in alarm. “But, she can’t-“

“She can,” was Phoenix’s blunt reply. “When Maya pulled that all-nighter before the concert, Lana sent her home from the rehearsal and cancelled her solo. Just like that. And she’ll do the same to you if you continue practicing like this and snubbing anyone that tells you it’s not a good idea just because they don’t play your bloody instrument!”

Miles felt sick to the stomach. He hadn’t been expecting this. When the conductor for _The Producers_ had found out he’d pulled an all-nighter to practice, he had actually been congratulated for his hard work. And yet here, everything seemed to be upside down and none of the rules applied. To lose his solo...

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Phoenix continued. “Actually, scrap that... “ he reached across and picked up his trumpet. “I’ll show you. I can tell you think along the same lines of Franziska when it comes to brass instruments – loud fools, she calls us. I’m hoping the way you’re acting is a throwback from Broadway and deep down you’re a little more open-minded. I didn’t have any luck persuading her, but maybe you might change your mind once you hear this...” 

Miles opened his mouth to protest, but Phoenix gave him a sharp look.

“Just listen, alright?”

He took a few steps back and raised the trumpet to his lips. Miles subconsciously flinched, pre-empting the coming assault on his ears.

Instead, the note Phoenix produced was barely audible at first, and though it rose in intensity, the sound was still a gentle one, and as he played the next few quavers Miles recognised it as Bach’s _Air on G String_. Though he was thoroughly familiar with the piece – it was one of his favourites – when coloured by the brassy timbre of the trumpet it sounded like something different entirely. Trumpets weren’t meant to play pieces like that, one part of him protested. It was alien. And yet, another part of him found it pleasing on the ear, in a strange kind of way. Somehow, though he was a lone trumpeter standing in a church hall, Phoenix was managing to replicate the additional harmonies one was accustomed to hearing when the piece was played by a full orchestra. Despite lacking the ability to sustain the minims that usually blended the piece together, in order to preserve the counterpoint, he succeeded in creating a melody that harmonised with the perception of the piece Miles already had. Involuntarily he was mentally filling in the missing bass lines implied by the rhythm, and though the minims didn’t carry on in his ears, they still echoed in his head. 

Phoenix launched into the next section, normally performed by oboe or clarinet, jumping up an octave effortlessly. The high notes rang out clear, with none of the distortion that made Miles cringe when the trumpet players in his university orchestra attempted notes beyond their accustomed range without much prior practice. He had been holding himself taut, waiting for the inevitable sour note or burble that would spoil the tone, but it never came, and finally he relaxed. The unusual combination of Bach and trumpet was making him listen to the piece in a way he never had before, and it was odd. The biased part within him wanted to hate it, and yet there wasn’t anything overt to hate, and it left him conflicted, listening out for the rest of the notes to complete the strange trumpet-lead version of the song that was playing in his mind, while at the same time trying to push them aside. But they settled so easily within the comfort range his musical ear preferred that he found it hard. It was with relief that he heard the closing bars. Phoenix let the last note fade and lowered the trumpet.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Miles was still trying to shake off the peculiar feeling he’d been left with after listening. The whole listening experience had been akin to putting a square peg into a round hole, that was just the right size for a snug fit.

“Lost for words, huh?”

He looked up at Phoenix, who had a smile on his face. Miles knew there was no point criticising his performance now – his momentary inability to come up with a scathing comment had betrayed him.

“Bach did not compose that piece for trumpet,” he grumbled.

“Nope, but I like it, so I play it,” Phoenix said simply. “And it must’ve sounded halfway decent, otherwise you would’ve had your fingers in your ears by the third bar. Sure, it’s not really suitable for a single melody instrument, but I can adapt it to compensate.. That’s what I’m trying to say really: being in the Travelling Symphony is all about adapting to whatever is required of you. There’s none of this ‘keep to your own section’ stuff – we all pitch in and make our contribution wherever it’s needed. You’re right, Bach doesn’t write much for trumpet. So when we did one of his pieces last year, Lana transposed the oboe parts for me to play instead.”

He knew that would get a rise out of Miles, and the shocked look on the oboist’s face gave him a guilty flush of satisfaction. Then he pressed the point home.

“Of course, a trumpet isn’t meant to play oboe parts; that’s what you’re thinking, and it’s true. You’ve got your part to play in this orchestra, just as I have mine, and now you’re here our pieces are gonna sound even better. But if you’re always playing as if you’re alone, you won’t sound right when you play with the rest of us, and you’ll never fit in.”

Miles had no reply to this. Slowly he put his oboe on the stand next to his chair, then he abruptly stood up, Phoenix stepping back in surprise.

“I’m... going to wash my face,” he said, avoiding meeting the trumpet player’s gaze.

He moved to walk past Phoenix, but Phoenix’s hand shot out and caught him by the arm.

“Before you do, at least promise that you won’t pull any more allnighters over that solo,” he said.

Edgeworth wrenched his arm back, breaking the contact.

“I don’t make childish things like promises.”

“Because you know you won’t keep them?”

“Because people like you don’t understand why I can’t make them in the first place!”

“Oh, people like me, huh?” Phoenix turned away in disgust, walking back down the aisle. “Oh, of course, anyone who doesn’t play the oboe couldn’t possibly understand how you feel. I don’t know why I even bothered telling you those things - I should just stick to my section and mind my own business, yup, getting that message LOUD and clear.”

As the bitterness of his parting comment hit home, Miles realised what he’d just done. Two practice sessions with the orchestra, and already he had argued with someone and put them down – alienated them. In the back of his mind his first day with the _Jerry Springer_ players was running its horrible course, the parallels flashing up – the synth player sneering at him as he walked in and the guitarists in a tight clique in the corner. The flautist had bothered to speak to him, but only because she felt just as alone, wanting to complain to someone about the others. And he had shied away from all of them, because it was easier to avoid them all equally than open up to someone and take a side. He had wanted to get away from all of that, and had only succeeded in recreating it in a different way – and this time, it was his fault entirely. His last outburst had been a knee-jerk reaction to the truth of the accusation preceding it. Phoenix didn’t understand how important the solo was, but he could still point out what he saw: that Miles was shutting himself away. 

Phoenix was nearly at the exit of the church, and Miles felt an acute sense of something about to slip out of his grasp, and though he didn’t know what it was, he knew what he had to do if he wanted to keep it.

“Wait...”

Phoenix halted midstep, but didn’t turn around. Miles felt a sense of relief, but now he’d called out he didn’t know what to say next. The silence stretched and he felt again that sense of something getting away from him. 

“I...”

Not even an apology would come out – it stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how else to convey it. Phoenix finally turned to face him. He still looked angry, and his expectant silence made it clear he was waiting for what Miles couldn’t say. Slipping away... 

“Thankyou.”

There, he could manage that. He said ‘thankyou’ all the time. It was the polite thing to do, after every audition where they’d rejected him, where he’d failed to impress – it was as much an apology as it was an expression of gratefulness. It was the best he could come up with.

“...Thankyou?” Phoenix was a little bewildered.

“Thankyou, for...” Miles trailed off, words eluding him again.

Phoenix just waited. Miles struggled for phrasing. He still wasn't sure what he was trying to get at - the words he was after were there but difficult to pin down.

“For,” he continued slowly, “making me stop and think. About what I want, about what I joined for.”

And then he understood. What he’d been about to lose: the very thing that Phoenix had been offering him over the past two rehearsals, that he’d pushed away automatically without realising what it was. Friendship.

“I auditioned for the wrong reasons,” he said, speaking faster as it all began to make sense. “I wanted to get away from Broadway so I could just play and not have to worry about anything else. But I see now, that things are so different outside of Broadway. Now I know what it can be like, and-“

“-you can try playing _with_ an orchestra instead of just being in one?”

Phoenix’s suggestion still had a bite of sarcasm in it, but Miles nodded, relieved that the trumpet-player was starting to understand. Phoenix was looking at him shrewdly, then he said,

“How many all-nighters did you pull for the audition?”

Miles blinked, the question taking him by surprise.

“Some,” he said warily.

“So that’s why...” Phoenix had a knowing look in his eyes now, walking back up to him. “That’s why people like me don’t understand.”

“Don’t under-" Miles broke off, remembering his snapped words to Phoenix earlier.

“Yup, I see now," Phoenix continued. "Your face is grey from lack of sleep, your eyes are red from propping them open staring at sheet music till all hours - you worked yourself into the ground to get here, and now you’re digging an even deeper hole for this solo. Why? You just reminded me of something Lana said: that solo was Mr. Gant’s choice, wasn’t it?” 

And there he had it. Piercing blue eyes fixed on him, expectant, waiting for him to confirm or deny it. He nodded slowly, knowing he was answering more than one question, and felt something somewhere break, some coiled-up spring in the back of his mind that had been winding tighter and tighter over the last two sleepless nights. Phoenix’s eyes softened, then he cast them down, sighing.

“Miles,” he said, looking back at up him. “I think you need to hear this. The Travelling Symphony... I meant what I said when I called it a family. Once you’re here, if you don’t want to leave then you’ll never have to. The audition’s hell, I know – Mr. Gant made me prepare six different pieces and if you had as many I can only imagine how much work it must have been – but that’s over and done with now. You’re here, you’ve made it, and if you play well with us then that’s all Mr. Gant asks. This solo,” he tapped the music stand, “it’s not about proving yourself; you’ve already done that. It’s about showing off what you can do, and to do that you’ve got to enjoy it. You make it sound brilliant but it’s no good if you yourself are looking like death.”

Miles looked at the single page of sheet music on the stand. An array of notes, dynamic markings, slurs, ties – it told him exactly how the piece was to be played, down to the last semiquaver.

“What would you do if I took that away?”

The question stabbed him in the stomach.

“I wouldn’t let you,” was his immediate reply.

“Even though you’ve probably already memorised it?”

“That’s not the point.”

Phoenix opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, closing it again. He didn’t need to say it, really – the conversation immediately replayed itself in Miles’ head with the unsaid sentence included: _You can’t feel a piece if you play it as written._

“I know,” he replied to it. “But at least I won’t make any mistakes.”

“You wouldn’t anyway.”

“I might,” Miles protested.

“If you play without it, you’ll know either way.” Phoenix had that expression in his eyes again. Waiting.

Miles knew there was no point stalling anymore. If he wanted to make a go of this, he had no choice but to try and adapt. He reached out and lifted the sheet music off the stand, holding it out, looking across the rows of chairs and not at Phoenix’s hand as the trumpet-player took hold of the crisp sheet of paper, tugging it out of Miles’ grip.

“Welcome to the Travelling Symphony,” Phoenix grinned, putting it inside his trumpet case. “In a couple of weeks you’ll feel like you’ve been here forever!”

“I suppose I’ll get used to it,” Miles said quietly, looking at his empty music stand and feeling a little lost. He headed off to wash his face, nodding to Maya and Pearl as he passed them in the aisle – they had just arrived.

“What are you looking at, Nick?” Maya asked as she took her seat and unzipped her violin case.

Phoenix was looking at the lid of Miles’ oboe case. The little engraved silver plate had caught his attention earlier and he’d taken the opportunity to get a closer look at it while Miles wasn’t there.

_Miles Edgeworth,  
Congratulations   
for achieving your  
oboe diploma  
With love,  
Father_


	3. Dorian Mode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bow marks are referred to in this chapter. They are instructions on a violinist's sheet music as to whether to play the note with an up-bow (V), or a down-bow ( TT).

In the end, Phoenix was right; it didn’t take Miles long to settle in. At first he resisted Phoenix’s attempts to get him to come out for supper with the others after rehearsals were over, but one time even Lana announced that she was going to join them.

“Come on, everyone’s going,” Phoenix said to him.

“The twins never go,” Miles pointed out.

“That’s because Dahlia hates us, so they don’t count,” Phoenix waved that off. “Go on, even if it’s just for an hour, you don’t have to stay.”

So he grudgingly followed and found it wasn’t so bad, sitting with them in the late-night cafe as they tucked into its greasy menu and swapped stories about the things they got up to when they weren’t rehearsing. So every now and then he would go, to keep Phoenix from pestering him.

He learnt that Maya and Pearl wore peculiar clothing because they studied the Kurain String Technique, a term he remembered vaguely from theory lessons back at university. He had tentatively asked them about it and they were quite happy to tell him the details. It all sounded a bit ludicrous to him, the idea of meditation improving one’s playing ability, but he kept that thought to himself, because how string players practiced wasn’t really any of his business.

Ema was still at high school – that was one of the reasons why they rehearsed in the evenings – and juggled hours of practice time with taking her science highers two years early. Angel Starr would come out with stories of this boyfriend discovering the existence of that other boyfriend and the hair-raising escapades that would ensue. She was quite unashamed, and laughed with the rest of them about it. One night the elusive Larry showed up, a girl on his arm who he delighted in introducing everyone to. The girl seemed a little bit shy, and blushed bright red when Larry sang her praises to everyone at the table. They consoled him a few weeks later when he turned up alone and tearful – Candice had found him a bit too over-the-top and had run off with her senior manager. Miles was a spectator in the background, for the most part, but if he had to interact he did so politely, and he preferred doing it in this setting than trying to strike up conversation with the others individually at rehearsals. It was a start, at least.

Sometimes they asked him things too, wrong-footing him with questions about Broadway that he wasn’t sure how best to respond to, but Phoenix usually came in with some related statement that he could safely say yes or no to. He didn’t mind talking about University, though, and when it came to the finer points of the pieces they were playing he could debate with the best of them. He soon discovered that quite a few of his fellow musicians only had a rudimentary knowledge of music theory.

“I know what breath marks are, but all these brackets and lines are a bit of a mystery to me,” Phoenix admitted. “I get Maya to scribble things like ‘louder’ and ‘softer’ on my sheets. We’re all a bit bad at that kind of thing in the brass section - Dick’s not much better, but he’s got the bass line so he doesn’t need to worry so much. Mike gets them all mixed up when he gets nervous, and Jake doesn’t really care.”

“And I only know I’m doing it wrong when Lana shouts at me,” Will sighed.

“So, this,” Miles dug a biro out of his bag and drew a note on a handy serviette, scoring a tenuto line beneath it. “What would this be?”

Phoenix and Will exchanged glances, shaking their heads.

“I know it means play it for a bit longer, because Maya told me so, but I’d be guessing at the name of it.”

Miles shook his head, despairing.

“How on earth are you getting through _Appalachian Spring_?” he said in wonder.

“Errr, luck?” Phoenix suggested, and Will nodded emphatically.

The next rehearsal Miles sat with them, determined to try and teach them something. He ended up washing his hands of them after many repeated attempts to explain the difference between accents, crescendos and decrescendos.

“But they all kinda look the same,” Phoenix said, tilting his head sideways to look at the scribbles. “And Maya’s got _vertical_ ones on her sheet music.” He made them sound like an abomination.

“They’re bow marks, you dolt!”

The concert drew nearer. With less than a month to go, Lana asked him to stay behind one rehearsal so they could go through his solo. Phoenix still had his sheet music, and he had panicked at the idea of performing for Lana without it – but Phoenix had already left, so he had no choice but to play it blind. He had practiced it through several times each evening, and Phoenix had been right: he had it note-perfect. But he still worried about the technicalities, and several times he had nearly gone up to the trumpet-player to demand the sheet music back. Stubbornness had kept him from going through with it, and so he continued to sit at home on the evenings he wasn’t rehearsing, staring at the empty music stand and trying to visualise the piece in front of him.

However, when Lana added the harpsichord accompaniment, it changed everything. He had forgotten what a wonderful feeling it was to play with a pianist, the plain chords bringing out the simplicity of the melody, and for the first time he connected properly with it, his notes flowing over the gentle harpsichord motif. Lana had just nodded to him when he’d finished, suggesting a few subtle variations in dynamic but otherwise she was happy with it. Afterwards he spent a few moments sitting there, wondering how on earth he was going to play it like that again without the sheet music there to mark how he’d done it. But after a few more practices he realised that was how it was meant to be, and then he started to enjoy it, especially on the night that Lana got the string section to stay for half an hour to add their subtle contribution to the accompaniment.

On one of the evenings that he didn’t go to dinner with the others, Pearl and Maya also stayed behind. He was packing up his sheet music and keeping half an eye on them, wondering why they hadn’t left with everybody else. Pearl was sitting on her chair, dejectedly plucking at one of the cello strings. It vibrated mournfully in the silence.

“It’ll be okay, Pearly,” Maya put her arms around her little cousin. “You’ve really tried your best, and Lana will know what to do!”

“I’m so nervous,” Pearl mumbled. “It’s going to sound even more awful.”

“...What’s the matter?” Miles asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A tear appeared at the corner of Pearl’s eye, tracking down her cheek, and she chewed her bottom lip, looking down at the tiling on the floor, unable to speak. Miles’ insides knotted and he averted his eyes, wishing he hadn’t asked.

“Lana’s going to hear Pearly play in a minute,” Maya explained. “The cello part for _Appalachian Spring_...”

“I can’t p-play it!” Pearl hiccupped. “I’m so useless.” She wiped away the tear before it reached her mouth, but another was quick to follow. “I can’t keep up...”

Miles didn’t know what to say. He remembered Lana gently picking her up on her playing speed in a rehearsal a few weeks ago, and guessed this was the result.

“It’s a rather fast piece in places,” he said uneasily, not sure how best to console her. “It’s difficult. I’m finding some of the sections hard work.”

“Me too,” Maya agreed. “We’re all finding it dead hard, and Lana knows it. But she believes in us, see? And that’s why you’ve gotta believe in yourself, Pearly!”

“No, I’ve let Lana down,” Pearl sniffled. “I’ve been practicing it for weeks and I still haven’t got it up to speed. Mother would be disappointed too... she’d find this so easy to play.”

“Don’t say that,” Miles said, picking up his oboe case and walking over to her. He squatted down, on eye level with her. “Nobody can be disappointed in you when you’ve tried this hard, Pearl. And besides... hold up your hand.”

Pearl had tears coursing down her face now, but she obeyed, holding up her hand shakily. Miles held up his own, pressing his palm against hers and splaying his fingers.

“See how much bigger my hand is?” he said. “You can only spread your fingers apart so much because your hand is little – that means you have much further to reach on those cello strings to play all the right notes. That’s not a problem in the slower parts, but doing all those arpeggios really quickly, that’d be nigh on impossible for you.”

Pearl attempted to spread her fingers to try and touch each of his, but she couldn’t.

“That means I’ll never be able to play it,” she took her hand away, fingering the notes from one of the bars silently on the cello strings. “Oh, I wish I had bigger hands...”

“Don’t be silly – you’re playing part of it now, are you not?” Miles replied, standing up. “And someday those fast sections will be as easy for you as they may have been for your mother. But at the moment all you can do is the best you can.”

“Which isn’t very good,” Pearl sighed.

“That’s nonsense,” Miles objected. “Most of my parts are in the slow passages, and I can confidently say that you do a fine job. In fact,” he bowed to her with a flourish, “it’s a pleasure to play alongside you.”

“R-really?” Pearl blushed. “Th-thankyou, Mr. Edgeworth!”

“See, Pearly?” Maya exclaimed. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t do the other bits so well if you make the bits you _can_ do sound really good!”

“I still wish I could play all of it though,” Pearl rubbed away some of the tears with her sleeve.

“I don’t think Lana was expecting you to,” Miles was thoughtful. “Conductors have a pretty good idea what their players are capable of – I think she’s already got something worked out for you, Pearl, and she just wants to hear your part through so she can see which bits you’re having the most difficulty with.”

“You think?” Pearl asked, brightening up a little.

“That sounds about right.” Lana was standing there in the doorway to the vestry. “Come on, Pearl, this way – there’s nothing to fret about, I promise.”

Pearl stood up, hesitant, but Maya gave her a little push and a thumbs up sign, and Miles nodded to her. She lifted her cello and followed Lana into the vestry, the door clicking shut behind them.

“You’re worried,” Miles said to Maya, who was straining to hear any sound coming from the vestry. “Don’t be. It will work out.”

“Oh, it normally does,” Maya replied, folding up her music stand. “It’s just a bit strange this time round, that’s all – normally we’re totally bored with practicing the pieces by now because we’ve got them down pat really quickly. But _Appalachian Spring_ , I think it’s the hardest piece we’ve done, and the longest. The concert’s only two weeks away and we’re still not ready. I guess it’s gonna be one of those ones that clicks on the day.”

“That’s... a bit late,” Miles said weakly. “Surely Lana will swap something else into the program?” That was what he had meant by it working out – either they would play it, or they wouldn’t.

“Swap something else in?” Maya looked blank.

“A piece you’ve done in a previous tour, something like that, perhaps.”

“Oh, no!” Maya laughed. “We never play anything twice. We’ll be ready. Somehow. That’s why Lana can stay calm about it and stop the rest of us going crazy – she believes we can do it, and that means we must.”

They began to hear Pearl through the wall as she got to the fast section where her solo was. She tripped on a few notes here and there, and the flow of the melody slowed. She stuck with it, trying to speed it back up again, but more wrong notes sounded and then the cello abruptly cut off.

“Lana’s stopped her,” Maya had a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Pearly...”

Shortly after that Pearl came back out again. There were fresh tears on her face, and Maya put her arms around her, hugging her tight. Miles turned away, busying himself with tidying away his music stand, but he heard Pearl say,

“I’m okay, really I am. Lana’s given me an easier part during the fast bits, she said the rest of it was okay. She’s getting Mr. Armando to do the solo section instead. I’m just crying because I feel so relieved!”

Miles let out the breath he’d been holding, and closed the legs of the music stand together with a satisfied snap. Maya was right. They’d be ready, somehow...


	4. Crescendo

The day of the concert arrived and Miles was up at 6am, having failed to sleep for more than an hour at a time. He made a cup of tea with the strongest blend in his large collection, leaving the teabag in for five minutes and not bothering with sugar because he needed an acrid taste to focus on. Maybe there was something to Diego’s proverb that sharpness of the mind and bitterness of the mug went hand in hand, but he certainly wasn’t about to downgrade to coffee to test it fully. The black tea was enough to chase away the residual fog of sleep, though it didn’t eradicate the memory of jerking awake from the throes of another nightmare.

It had been different from the usual one that marched through his sleep every few nights, but no less unpleasant: concert catastrophes that had fled from memory upon waking. All that was left was a gnawing uneasiness more to do with his solo performance than anything else. Oh, and _Appalachian Spring_ , but that was a chronic worry running through the entire orchestra – one that Miles felt more on behalf of his fellow musicians than for his own parts. They were due at the concert hall at 9 for an all-day rehearsal, and even the night before Lana had been modifying large chunks of their performance of the Copland piece, berating them for this, that or the other. But the ‘click’ Maya had predicted finally happened on the last runthrough of that night, and they had gone home tired but relieved that it was all finally working out. There was still more fine-tuning to do today, though.

In the meantime, he was at a loss as to how to while away the hours before leaving for the rehearsal. He was giving Phoenix a lift to the concert hall as the trumpet-player didn’t want to be reliant on the bus services today, but he wasn’t due to arrive until half eight. It was no use practicing alone, he needed to be fresh for later on, and Classical Radio wasn’t any soother for the nerves either. The Bach Hour just clashed with the bars of his solo playing over and over in his mind. In the end he spent some time renewing the cork grease on his oboe sections and cutting a new reed, then went for a walk to the 24-hour store – though there was nothing he really needed. When he came back with a single loaf of bread, Phoenix was walking up to the front door of his apartment, trumpet case in hand. He was an hour early.

“I thought you’d be up,” he said.

“Looks like you couldn’t sleep either,” Miles countered.

“Yeah,” Phoenix confessed. “Normally I sleep fine, but normally we’re not still perfecting a piece on the day of the concert. Chocolate covered coffee bean?” he offered the packet he was holding to Miles.

“Black tea suits me fine, thankyou. You’ll get the shakes if you eat too many of those.”

“Ah, I’m already going a little crazy anyway,” Phoenix shrugged, eating five at once. “I’ve got the damn trumpet solo from _Appalachian Spring_ going on in my head like a broken record. Do you mind me turning up this early? It was either this or go and busk for the joggers in the park.”

Miles shook his head, unlocking the door to his flat and holding it open.

*

When they arrived at the concert hall some people were there already. Pearl was propped up against the conductor’s dais, fast asleep, and Maya was quietly tuning up in the corner. Maggey was replacing another string on her viola, and Angel was calmly rubbing rosin onto her bow. The twins were putting together the sections of their flutes and cleaning beneath the keys. Dick was dozing in his chair, arms leaning on the tuba between his knees and his head down on top of them, and Jake had his feet up, hat tilted low over his face and poncho draped over his front like a blanket, snoozing.

“Isn’t this supposed to be the orchestra that doesn’t pull allnighters?” Miles said to Phoenix.

“Well, I think it’s more ‘not being able to sleep much’, than ‘staying up all night’,” Phoenix said, pulling out another six bags of chocolate covered coffee beans from his rucksack and offering them around.

“Heeeeeeeeeey!” Larry yelled as he entered the hall. “Are we ready to wow those punters tonight? We totally kicked butt in that last runthrough yesterday!”

“Shut up, Butz,” Franziska growled from behind him. “You’re disgustingly cheerful and it vexes me.”

“Geez, sorry for breathing, Franzy,” Larry said breezily, sliding into his seat and clicking his clarinet together in a few seconds.

Franziska took up her position behind the array of percussion instruments that had been set up for her, folding her arms and waiting impatiently for the others to get ready. Pearl stirred as Lana arrived and put her stack of scores on the dais. Rubbing one eye the little cellist got to her feet and drifted over to her chair, tuning up with a glazed look in her eyes. Phoenix had something different in his rucksack for her – a can of Fanta.

“Are you the Travelling Symphony’s quartermaster or something?” Miles asked, bemused by Phoenix’s seemingly bottomless rucksack.

“I know what everybody needs to make them tick,” Phoenix grinned, digging out some packets of Snackoos and throwing them to Ema, who gave him a thumbs up sign in return. “Just wait till you’re performing in Moscow on three hours sleep because of jetlag – you’ll be begging me for coffee beans then.”

“Looking forward to it,” Miles replied blandly, wetting his reed.

*

“Much better, orchestra,” Lana nodded with satisfaction. “Much, much better.”

They had spent the latter half of the morning working through _Appalachian Spring_ section by section, and had just run through it in full. Though absorbed in playing, Miles knew the sound they were producing finally felt right. And if Lana was happy, it must sound right from the point of view of the audience as well.

Maya’s stomach growled, loud in the silence.

“I think that’s the cue to break for lunch,” Lana said, face deadpan.

Everyone burst out laughing, and Maya went bright red with embarrassment.

*

Miles only ordered a sandwich in the cafeteria. Performance nerves were knotting his stomach and though he knew he ought to eat he couldn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls of it. He sat with it for a while, watching everyone else at the different tables happily tucking into their lunches and chatting away. Phoenix was right – the orchestra really were one big happy family; bar Franziska and the twins, whose absence was no surprise. The cafeteria they were all sitting in was probably no different to the ones they’d be eating at in various other countries. This time next week they’d all be in Hanover, crammed into a budget hotel two to a room, and the week after they would be in Paris. Two months ago he would’ve found the idea of travelling in such close company a living nightmare. Now, he found he wasn’t so bothered about that side of things – in fact, he was slightly looking forward to it. He had only travelled abroad once in his life, when his father and the rest of the LA Symphony had been invited to London to perform, and Phoenix had said there would always be a day off to explore whichever city they were visiting.

“You’ll be able to expand your tea collection,” the trumpet-player had teased during the morning rehearsal – he had been gobsmacked by the size of Miles’ tea cupboard when visiting his flat earlier. “One from every country!”

But right now there were other, more pressing matters to hand: in five hours time he was to perform his solo, and he still needed to try it out in the hall and judge how best to exploit the acoustics. He prodded the sandwich. The bread was starting to go a bit stale. In the end he offered it to Phoenix, who wolfed it down along with the rest of his large lunch.

“You’re going back to practice your solo now, aren’t you?” Phoenix said between bites, making it a statement more than a question.

Miles nodded, knowing he’d made that intention pretty obvious by not putting his oboe in the storage room with the rest of the instruments. He stood up and grabbed his oboe case. Then he took a breath, and asked,

“Can I have the sheet music back?”

Phoenix paused mid-chew, looking up at him.

“Alright,” he said, opening up his sheet music folder and digging it out, passing it to him. “Lucky mascot, huh?”

“You can’t talk – or did you think I hadn’t spotted the little teddy that sits in your trumpet case?”

“His name’s Taiho,” Pearl piped up. "He was a gift from Mystic Maya... to her special," her dreamy words were abruptly cut off by Phoenix and Maya both clapping a hand over her mouth.

"Pearly!" Maya said indignantly. "Top-secret, remember?"

Pearl's eyes widened and she looked up at her elder cousin apologetically.

"Uhhh, pretend you didn't hear any of that," Phoenix said hurriedly, and Maya nodded rapidly in agreement. They released Pearl, who made a solemn zip motion across her lips.

“Erm, see you later,” Miles said, looking a little bewildered and then turning to leave.

“Oh, and take this,” Phoenix fished a granola bar out of his lunchbox, sliding it across the table. “You’ll get hungry eventually.”

“It’ll go to waste,” Miles protested, but Phoenix waved it off so he gave in and deposited it in his pocket.

"He looks really nervous," Maya said as he left. "I bet he got even less sleep than we did!"

"He was already up when I arrived at his place," Phoenix said, eating a few grapes. "I don't think he sleeps much generally."

“Do you think he’ll be okay when he does his solo?” Pearl asked. “Oh, I do hope so!”

“I don’t know why he’s worrying,” Maya said, licking some barbecue sauce off her wrist. “He’ll get a standing ovation, I’ll bet my burger on it.”

“Easy for you to say now, but remember what you were like before your first one!” Phoenix reminded her.

“Ugh,” Maya groaned. “I mean, it wasn’t as bad as the one Lana cancelled, but whew, I actually went to the toilet five times before the concert because I was that worried about peeing my pants when I got up in front of all those people.”

Pearl hopped down from her stool to fetch a banana from the fruit basket at the counter. When she was out of earshot Phoenix whispered,

“Maggey told me she had a nightmare before hers in which she fell out of her dress in front of the entire audience. At least you’ll never have to worry about that!”

“Hey, what are you implying about my chest?” Maya threw a bit of onion at him.

“Twenty minutes, you lot, then it’s back to work!” Lana announced as she walked by their table. “And I suggest you _eat_ that burger rather than throwing pieces of it around, Miss Fey, or Mr. Gant may just decide to stop subsidising your lunches.”

“It was justified,” Maya said petulantly, glaring at Phoenix.

“Wright, if I hear you making any more lewd comments about cleavage sizes I’ll make you clean Gumshoe’s tuba.”

“It _won’t_ happen again,” Phoenix assured her emphatically, face turning a little pale at the thought of such a mammoth task.

Phoenix stuck his tongue out at Maya after Lana had swept out of the cafeteria, and had more onion thrown at him for his cheek, to which he retaliated with a bit of sandwich crust. Pearl returned to break up the foodfight, scolding them both for being so childish yet also delighted that they were being so affectionate towards each other. She got a whole piece of lettuce in her face for _that_ particular comment.

***

Miles came back into the auditorium to find that someone had tidied away his music stand. He sighed, climbing the steps onto the stage. Tuning first, then he’d find a stand. He didn’t _need_ the sheet music – strange as it was to be thinking that – but with his nerves this strung having the staves in front of him was a bit of a comfort. His reed was still warm from the earlier rehearsal so he didn’t need to do much with it. Oboe assembled and tuned, he placed it on its stand and got up, looking in the wings to see if his music stand had been deposited there. It hadn’t, which meant a trip down to the storage room. He deliberated whether it was worth the trek, but then he would need one anyway when the others returned. He walked back onstage and grabbed his oboe, not wanting to leave it there unattended, then headed for the back stairs that lead down to storage.

He walked down the dim corridor, counting the doors till he got to the right storeroom. There was light coming from under the door, which seemed a little strange as everyone was out to lunch. Someone had been careless and left it on. He punched in the keycode, turning the handle and entering the room.

Something crunched beneath his feet as the door shut behind him and he froze as he heard a horrible cracking noise to his left, accompanied by the sour thrum of strings. He turned, coming face to face with Dahlia Hawthorne. In one hand she held the shattered remains of Pearl’s cello, its strings trailing across the floor, and in the other she held a large axe. She looked at him with surprise, and he stared back at her in horror, noticing Iris’s body lying face-down on the floor behind her. That was all he had time to take in before Dahlia threw the broken cello aside and lunged towards him, swinging the axe.


	5. Cacophony

He dived out of the way, knocking over some music stands with a crash. Dahlia was slight and the momentum of the axe made it difficult for her to control, but as she spun around and came at him again he could see the cold detachment in her eyes. It made fear twist his gut like never before – if she got too close, he was finished.

He swept his foot under the fallen pile of music stands, metal scraping against concrete as he kicked them into Dahlia’s path, forcing her to come to an abrupt halt, then he ran the other way, shoes crunching on more pieces of shredded wood as he passed a heap of matchsticks that could’ve once been a violin. He nearly tripped over Iris’s body and as he skirted past he skidded in his haste – on the patch of blood that had pooled by her head. The sight of it paralyzed him for a second, then Dahlia was there with the axe and he had to duck, half-falling as the blade passed over his head by a hair’s breadth and chipped plaster off the wall. He planted his free hand on the floor and scrambled to his feet, stumbling forward out of the way of another axe swing and leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He turned to face her, hugging his oboe close to his body and backing as far away from her as the small room would allow.

Dahlia was in front of the door – his escape was blocked. She smirked at him, hefting the weight of the axe to let the handle smack against one alabaster palm. Her white dress was marred by streaky black stains and her plaits had come loose, stray strands of red hair escaping to give her a wild appearance matching the predatory look in her eyes. She had him cornered.

“Are you going to kill me like you did your sister?”

“She’s not dead, you stupid fool,” Dahlia retorted. “She was trying to stop me breaking the instruments, so I knocked her out with her own flute – one of the keys cut her head. Serves her right, she should’ve just let me get on with it.”

He felt a flash of relief – Iris was still alive… thank God. But Dahlia’s callous dismissal incensed him.

“You... I can’t believe-“ Words temporarily failed him as he took in the trail of destruction Dahlia had wreaked with the axe. Not even the brass instruments had been spared – he could see them propped up in the corner by the shelves, surrounded by puddles of black paint with more overflowing from their brimming bells. His oboe, which he had somehow managed to keep hold of during the scuffle, was the only instrument to have escaped her vandalistic spree. “Why? Why have you done this? Are you out of your _mind_?!”

Dahlia just laughed.

“Of course you would ask that. You’ve never had difficulty playing anything in your life, so how could you understand the humiliation of being given a _simpler_ part?”

For a second, he was confused. Then the image of Pearl’s tearful face from two weeks ago flashed through his mind.

“It’s _Appalachian Spring_ , isn’t it?” he said. “You can’t play it.”

“Shut up,” Dahlia snarled, grip tightening on the axe. “I was getting by just fine, but no, it’s not good enough for Stuck-Up Skye. Well fuck her; now nobody can play it.”

With that Miles knew there was no point trying to talk her round – it was clear she had planned this weeks ago, and he was just an unwanted interference. He didn’t doubt that in her current state she was capable of killing him. Another circuit of the room trying to avoid her axe swings was out of the question – it was a miracle he had survived the first. He eyed the door behind her, heart banging against his chest. If he could get her to move away, he could try and make a break for it and get help. But cornered like this, provoking an angry attack was the only way he could hope to get past her – one foot wrong and he’d be dead, cut to pieces. Panic began to rise within him, his senses hyper-focusing and the rushing blood in his ears amplified to a roar. Dahlia was beginning to imperceptibly shift, he had seconds, seconds left to save his life.

Light on his feet, eyes fixed on her, he replied,

“You mean, now nobody can _show you up_?”

“SHUT _UP_!”

As Dahlia went for him Miles flung himself sideways out of the path of the axeblade, barely staying on his feet as he dodged past her and hurtled towards the door, oboe still held close and other arm flung out to keep his balance as he tried to leap the fallen music stands in his path, but there were just too many and he couldn’t slow down – he lost his footing on the very last one and went flying, sprawling into the hacked-apart carcass of Diego’s double bass and twisting around to see Dahlia standing over him, axe raised high and expression pure hatred.

“It was your oboe I wanted to break the most, Miles Edgeworth – because you’re so fucking _perfect_!”

His hands acted of their own accord as the axe came down – the blade bit savagely into the polished black wood, jarring shockwaves ripping through his arm, and Miles pushed against it as hard as he could to stop the entire instrument smashing into his face under the impact, the oboe’s solid shaft cracking in the middle as he deflected the blow to one side. The axeblade slipped from the gash in the wood and skidded down the length of the oboe with an earsplitting screech and sparks from metal on metal, cleaving through delicate hinges one by one before catching on a trill key and wrenching the entire instrument from his hands. As it fell to the floor in a shower of broken silver keys Dahlia tried to bring the axe back for another blow but Miles threw himself forward out of the wreckage and barreled into her, seizing the handle of the axe as Dahlia fell backwards over the music stands behind her. The pair of them crashed to the floor, Miles wresting the axe from her hands.

Dahlia’s fingernails clawed into his skin as she tried to pry his fingers from the handle, but Miles jerked it away, struggling to his feet and running for the door, swinging the axe with all his strength and burying the blade deep into the wood with a resounding thunk that made the entire door judder. He scrabbled for the handle and pulled the door open, shouting for help at the top of his voice, but silver flashed in his periphery and the solid metal flute connected with the side of his head –

THUD.

He staggered sideways from the impact, pain shooting through his head and white lights dancing in his vision. He clapped a hand to the side of his head, dizzy, and caught a glimpse of Dahlia tugging at the axe embedded in the door. She couldn’t pull it free.

“Pearl couldn’t play it either,” Miles said thickly, punch-drunk from the strike. “But she took the simpler part and made it fit in like it was there all along. You just couldn’t take the blow to your ego!”

Dahlia turned, face ugly with fury, and she picked up the flute again, but there were voices from the corridor. She spat a final epithet at him, then opened the door and made a run for it.

The door slammed shut behind her. Miles backed away from it, head still spinning from the hit Dahlia had dealt him. Then he realized she really had gone. He stood still for a moment, his mind trying to catch up to what had happened. He turned slowly to look behind him.

Iris was still face-down on the floor, her head ringed by a halo of drying blood.

The Travelling Symphony’s instruments lay massacred around her.

Nothing had been spared.

Not even…

_Don’t think._

He slowly walked towards Iris. She blurred in and out of focus. His sight was unsteady – his heart was still hammering hard enough to make his vision shake. He crouched amongst the broken pieces of a clarinet to feel her pulse. It was still there, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

The door burst open and he jumped, whirling round to face his assailant – but it was Dick Gumshoe who stood there, paling at the sight before him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “What happened, pal? We heard shouting on our way back to the stage and came to see what was going on.” He eyes scanned the room and settled on Iris’ prone form, more colour draining from his face. “…She okay? Dahlia ran out just now-” his voice gained an edge. “She’s got something to do with this, hasn’t she?”

Miles was so relieved to see the dependable tuba-player that it took a few moments for the questions to sink in.

“Yes, she…” he began, but he could barely speak – his mouth was dry and his throat closed up. More of the orchestra were entering the room to stand silently behind Dick, looking at the remains of their instruments that were strewn across the room and the unconscious flautist lying amongst the debris. “…she broke – everything. I walked in on her and she just went for me. Iris tried to stop her before, but…” he gestured towards Iris, the words lost. The others looked horrified, and suddenly he realized what he’d forgotten to say. “Iris is alive, I, she – I checked, she’s just unconscious,” the words seemed to tumble out in the wrong order, but they understood, and immediately whispers began to break out.

“Dahlia-“

“She did this?”

“I don’t believe it-“

“She tried to kill her own sister?”

“I hope Phoenix caught her-“

“QUIET!” Lana pushed past them all and went straight to Iris’ side, feeling for her pulse just as Miles had done a few moments before and checking her breathing. She deftly parted the plaits on Iris’ head to look at the wound. “She needs medical attention. Nobody is to move her – it could be serious.”

She looked up at Miles. Her eyes were hard, lips pursed – whatever she felt about the carnage around her was locked away by a grim focus on the here and now.

“Go and-“ she stopped. “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” Miles held a hand up to the side of his head. It was damp, and he felt a trickling sensation down his temple. “Oh. I see.” He could feel a lump swelling up beneath his fingers but the pain was dim, numbed by the cold seeping though his body.

Maya picked up the dismembered neck of a violin that lay by her feet, looking at the colour of the wood.

“I think this is yours,” she said quietly, holding it out to Angel Starr.

“A lot of use it is now,” Angel said sourly, taking it and returning it to the pile of wood fragments it came from.

“I wonder where mine is,” Maya scanned the room. There were other heaps of varnished wood lying there, strings in a snarled knots. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” She rubbed her eyes, fingers coming away wet. “Why did she do this? It’s horrible.”

Pearl stepped forward, to stand over the splintered body of her cello. She crouched down, running her finger across the ugly crack in the one panel of smooth, varnished wood that was still intact. Then she began to sob. Maya knelt by her, gathering her into her arms, but there was nothing she could say. Pearl clung to her, her whole body shaking as she cried.

Lana unwound her muffler, handing it to Miles.

“Apply pressure – that will stop the flow.”

“But that’s your-“

“Apply pressure.” The tone was flat and he dared not argue, so he took it and bundled it up, pressing it to his head.

“So she actually hit you?”

Miles tried to explain what had happened, feeling strangely detached from it all. His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore, somehow muted as the adrenaline began to leave his system.

Phoenix came through the door, breathless.

“I lost her, she ran out the back doors and by the time I got there she’d g-“ He looked at the scene in front of him, aghast. “...my God.”

Diego was bent over his ruined bass, yanking the strings out of their pegs. His face was a mask, eyes dark.

“If I see that spiteful little mare again...” the D string twanged ominously as he removed it.

“Diego, leave those alone,” Lana ordered. “This is a crime scene and nothing else is to be touched, do you understand?” she addressed this to all of them. “Dick, I want you to contact the police. Jake, the ambulance, and Phoenix, you take Miles out of here and get a cloth for his head. I want the rest of you to go and wait in the cafeteria.”

“What about the brass instruments?” Jake asked, pointing. “A little paint won’t do harm to those bambinas and if we get ‘em out now we can-“

“Forget it, Jake, pal,” Dick replied. He was bent over his tuba, fingers tracing the grubby brass and leaving smears as they caught on trickles of black paint. “She’s put dents in them as well. They’re not worth saving.”

“Didn’t I say, no touching?” Lana said icily.

Dick shuffled back, shoulders slumped, face contrite.

“I will contact Mr. Gant and appraise him of the situation. Instruments can be replaced, but instrumentalists cannot, so I want you all to get _out_ of here to give the paramedics room to see to Iris.” Lana’s tone made it quite clear she was not planning on telling them again.

Dick turned to leave the room and saw the axe that was lodged in the back of the door, starting at the sight of it. He was quick to open the door, but not before the others had seen it. Maya looked up at it, eyes dull. Then she hung her head, taking Pearl’s hand and leading her out. Larry put his arm around Ema’s shoulder, gently ushering the weeping schoolgirl in Maya and Pearl’s wake. Will carried Mike in his arms – the teenager had fainted away upon seeing the devastation. One by one, they left. There was nothing else they _could_ do.

“Too bad you couldn’t catch her,” Jake said to Phoenix on his way out. “It woulda been mighty satisfying burying that axe in her good-for-nothing head.”


	6. Addolorato

Phoenix escorted Miles towards the box office to ask for a first aid kit. It was only out in the sharp lighting of the main hallway that Miles realised he was covered in splinters. He reached up to brush some large ones – cherry wood, from Diego’s bass – off the front of his shirt, but a flash of red on the back of his hand caught his eye. He paused, looking down at it. Dahlia’s fingernails had gouged right into his skin, leaving three shallow gashes from wrist to knuckle that welled with blood. They began to sting now he was looking at them, but his palm was starting to hurt also. He turned it over, and the sting magnified to sharp, stabbing pains as he saw the number of wood fragments embedded in his palm. The wood was the wrong colour to be Diego’s bass.

_I must’ve gotten these when I fell near Iris. Why didn’t it hurt earlier? I grabbed the axe with this hand; it should’ve been agony. How strange._

“Ouch,” he said, a little belatedly.

Phoenix gave a low whistle at the sight of them, shaking his head.

“Damn, that looks pretty bad – those need pulling out or your hand’ll get all infected. How the hell did you manage to pick up so…” he trailed off, seeing the look on Miles’ face as he stared at his own hand. That was a question better left unasked right now. “Wait here for a sec.” Phoenix pointed to a seat in the lobby. “I’ll run and grab the first aid kit. There might be some tweezers or something, and you’ll need antiseptic for those scratches.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Miles wiped another trickle of blood from his face with the back of his hand, but it mingled with that from Dahlia’s scratches, leaving a curved streak of red running from temple to forehead.

His mechanical response made Phoenix stop and look at him.

“You’re in shock,” he said.

“I’m not,” Miles said quickly. “I’m just pointing out, what do a few cuts and splinters matter after everything that’s happened? I...”

_It was your oboe I wanted to break the most, Miles Edgeworth-_

“You’ve gone really pale now. You should sit down.”

“I’m okay stand-“

“Sure you are.” Phoenix folded his arms, expression flat. He wasn’t going to put up with any more of Miles’ shaky reassurances. “Now sit. Or I’ll get Lana.”

Miles sat down on one of the seats.

“Okay. Back in a sec.” Phoenix disappeared into the box office. Miles heard sirens outside, blue strobe reflected in the brass plaque he was staring at on the opposite side of the narrow foyer. The plaque was commemorating, in flourishing copperplate, the opening of the concert hall by some personage he had never heard of. The glass doors banged open and two paramedics rushed past him, stretcher carried between them.

Will she be okay? He wasn’t sure how long Iris had been out cold like that. Dahlia had done such a meticulous job of destroying everything that she could have been unconscious for an hour or more. If only I had come back from lunch earlier...

Phoenix re-emerged from the box office a few minutes later, carrying a robust green plastic box. He placed it on the seat next to Miles, fishing out a cloth and a water bottle.

“Water’s straight from the cooler,” he said, dampening the cloth and handing it to Miles, who draped Lana’s muffler over his lap and applied the cold cloth, wincing as it came into contact with the cut.

“The paramedics just went past.” Miles nodded towards the door.

Phoenix paused, then replied,

“They’ll look after Iris. They’ll... yeah, they’ll fix her up in no time.” But the waver of uncertainty betrayed his façade. “...You know, I never thought Dahlia had it in her to do this,” he said bitterly. “She wouldn’t give any of us the time of day after she got rejected by LA Symphony, but I didn’t think she hated us so, so _much_ , hated us enough to do something like this, something so…” he trailed off, spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture. “Why? I just can’t understand it!” He threw his hands down in frustration.

“I can answer that, at least,” Miles sighed, looking up at him. “I think you were still chasing after Dahlia when I told this to the others: she couldn’t play the second flute part for _Appalachian Spring_. Lana gave her a simpler part and she took it as an insult. This was all an act of revenge.”

Phoenix stared at him. He couldn’t say a word.

“That’s, er, the crux of it, really,” Miles said uncomfortably, feeling as if he needed to add something more in the face of such disbelief, but there was no further explanation he could give.

“That… she – I don’t believe it,” Phoenix stammered. “All that, just because she couldn’t play her bloody harmony part?” His face darkened. “Damn it. That’s the stupidest, pettiest, frickin’ _selfish_ -“ He stopped, aware his voice was rising. “Sorry.” He bowed his head, speaking more quietly. “It’s not like it’s gonna change anything, shouting about it, is it?”

“No, but it’s understandable to want to. It’s a hopeless situation, after all – she’s gone, and we’re left to pick up the…” then Miles realised that was a poor choice of phrasing. His stomach twisted uncomfortably around its unsaid conclusion.

_Pieces everywhere…_

“…you know what I mean,” he finished lamely.

“Yeah… and that’s just it.” Phoenix moved the first aid box onto the floor and sank down into the chair next to him. “Some part of me died, seeing my trumpet like that. She’s done such a horrible thing to us, to Iris, to you – but my gut feeling tells me she’s just going to disappear, and that’ll be the end of it. There’ll be no justice or anything.” He paused, looking down at the first aid box at his feet, then bent down and began going through its contents. “We’ve just got to try and bounce back from this somehow. Otherwise she’ll win and that’d be even worse.” He found what he was looking for; a pair of tweezers. “Hold out your hand, I’ll try and get some of the bigger splinters.”

Miles held out his right hand, palm up. It shook, and he retracted it abruptly but Phoenix had seen it, eyes raising to look at him, to ask -

“I’m fine. Please don’t ask again.”

“Miles, there’s no point closing yourself off now. We’re all in this together, we’ve all lost something important today. I saw… um-“ Phoenix checked himself.

But Miles knew what he had seen. The silver keys strewn across the floor, the stripped ebony body that had split in the middle under the impact of the axe, the deep gouges in the metal holdings where the keys had been sheared off.

“It’s just an oboe,” he muttered. “It’s just an- it’s just...”

***

_He kept his steps slow and calm as he walked out of the practice room, kept his face solemn as he walked up to his father who was standing at the door. But inside he felt as if he would just burst as he saw the smile on his father’s face, and finally he just couldn’t help it, he broke into a huge grin and swung his oboe case around in front of him to clasp in both hands, looking up at him to exclaim,_

_“I passed, Father!”_

_“Of course you did, Miles” his father replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. “How could you not have, with all your hard work?”_

_Then from behind his back he brought forward a heavy black case, identical to the one Miles was holding. He held it out to Miles, who was looking at it in awe. Miles knew exactly what it was, and rested his own case at his feet before straightening up to take the new case in hesitant hands, breathing in the smell of rich leather._

_“You’re a professional now, my son – and this is an oboe to match your ability.”_

_Balancing the case carefully Miles Edgeworth, aged nine, undid the clasps with one hand, reading the engraved inscription on the lid before tentatively lifting it to reveal the contents. The keys on the three oboe sections lying in crimson crushed velvet were polished and bright, and his eyes picked out the differences straight away. He could see the grain of the wood – wood, not plastic – beneath the ebony staining, and a new F key, extra trill keys on every section, and some had holes instead of flat metal which he’d have to be careful to cover properly with his fingers... Having looked at it from end to end he could see it was just like the one his father had. In one corner of the case was stamped the elaborate logo of the company his father and all the other woodwind players in the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra purchased their supplies from. It was brand new, and his, and simply begged to be put together and played, especially with that new reed he had soaking at home. Oh, the sound it would make! He closed the case, clicking the clasps shut, and looked up at his father, face shining._

_“Can we go home and try it, please, Father?” he asked._

_“Don’t you want lunch first, Miles?”_

_“Oh...” Miles’ face fell. He had forgotten how late in the afternoon it was – the diploma exam was long and tiring, but all the stamina he’d used up in the exam had returned in a huge rush as soon as he’d opened the case._

_His father laughed._

_“I supposed we can just grab some sandwiches on the way back.”_

_“Yes, please, can we do that?” Miles said hopefully. He was unconsciously shifting from foot to foot in his impatience, hugging the new oboe case to his chest._

_“I have to say, I’m looking forward to hearing how it sounds,” his father smiled, picking up Miles’ student oboe. “Shall we be off, then?”_

_As he sat in the car on the drive back Miles couldn’t resist opening the case now and then to sneak another peek at what lay inside._

_He was still holding onto it when the fire brigade cut his unconscious body out of the mangled car wreckage an hour later._

_Gregory Edgeworth hadn’t survived the impact, nor had the lorry driver who’d collided with him at the intersection. The nurse who told Miles this, and hugged his numb body to her as he tried to cry but couldn’t, said that though his father wasn’t there anymore, what he’d given Miles was. And that made it a very special clarinet, she said. He corrected her, and put it together so she could see how different it really was. But even though she’d made a mistake, she had still said something very important. His oboe was the last thing Father had given him, and though that made it special, if he wanted to follow in his footsteps there was a lot of work to be done to master playing it._

_He never told his foster family about the nightmares that robbed him of sleep – instead the nighttime was for silent practice, fingers racing up and down the keys until his thumbs were dented and sore and his wrists ached from bearing the weight of the solid wood. Even without making a sound, he was still building up his stamina and technique. In a way his father was there as he played – a gentle inner voice repeating the hints and tips that used to be murmured from behind the newspaper as Miles sat in the living room and practiced. Other nights he would just sit there with the case open on his lap, fingers resting on the keys as he stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts while still retaining the sense of cool metal against his fingers._

***

And now it lay broken on a cold storeroom floor.

“It’s not just an oboe, Miles. I saw the big crack in the middle of it and the way the keys were all cut off – it’s pretty easy to figure out what happened to it. It saved your life, didn’t it?”

It had been reflex. Primitive self-preservation taking over and blocking death with the only thing to hand.

Yes, it saved his life. He could have died.

It was true.

But there was no relief. Nor sadness, nor anger. A stretching emptiness took the place of what had gone before, and he felt open, so horribly exposed. Dahlia had ripped a hole right through him.

“...You know when you said that something died inside you, seeing your trumpet like that?” he asked.

Phoenix nodded silently.

Miles bent forward and rested his arm on his knee, letting his splinter-ridden hand drop uselessly as he fixed his eyes again upon the bronze plaque opposite them, still pressing the dripping cold cloth to his head. “You’re right, I sacrificed my oboe to stop Dahlia hacking me apart. I had to, she had me cornered – if I hadn’t blocked it she would have cleaved me head to toe. Logic tells me I’m a fool for feeling as… as devastated as I am right now, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve put too much of myself into what I play – that oboe _is_ me, take it away and I’m… well, I’m nothing, really. I don’t know who I’m trying to fool. It’s not ‘just an oboe’. It never was.”

“I saw the engraving on your case,” Phoenix said hesitantly, knowing he was touching delicate territory. “Your father, who gave you it – he’s... gone, isn’t he? And your mother... she’s not mentioned on there, so, um-”

Miles’ expression changed briefly. Something flitted across it, chased and replaced by bruised shadows, blank eyes and heavy lines. He didn’t reply.

“But… if Dahlia had killed you, there would be no one to play that oboe, would there?”

Miles looked across at him. Phoenix’s voice was quiet now, his eyes solemn.

“I know you’ve put a lot of yourself into what you play – believe me, it shows. But an oboe is just wood and reed without somebody there to sound it.”

Miles nodded.

“Yes. It’s an instrument, it’s designed to be played, and I wasn’t going to keep it closed up in its case simply because my father gave it to me. I wanted to play it, and I knew it could get damaged… but,” he slowed, “I just didn’t think, I never imagined that… it’s completely beyond repair, she completely-” he swallowed, but his mouth was as dry as his throat and his eyes were starting to burn with the discomfort of tear ducts filling against his will. He blinked a few times and the sensation subsided slightly, but he could feel a slight dampness in the corner of his left eye, warning him not to continue the sentence.

“It’s the unexpectedness of it,” Phoenix said glumly. “It’s the worst feeling the world, to lose it like this. God, I know, I feel the same.” He buried his face in both palms, rubbing at his eyes before dragging his fingers back heavily through his hair, making the spikes droop. He looked tired. “But there’s more to you than just your oboe and how you play it,” he continued. “More than maybe you might think. And hey, you’ve still got the case. So you’ve still got something that your Dad gave you, right?”

“I do,” Miles said softly. “I only wish that I still had my oboe to put in it.”

“Yeah… it doesn’t make it any less of a loss,” Phoenix sighed. “It’s not much consolation, but wouldn’t you have had to replace your oboe eventually? Don’t woodwind instruments crack with age? Larry had to replace his clarinet four months ago ‘cause it developed a fracture somewhere.”

“They do, unless you put a lot of time and effort into caring for the wood. Though yes, their lifespan is limited. I spend as much time doing maintenance as I do playing – that’s the only reason mine has lasted so well. Even then, I was still planning to hold onto it after getting a replacement. For the sake of the memories, I suppose.”

“I know what you mean. I may ask for mine back after police and insurance have finished with it… I busked for two years with my rotten student trumpet to raise enough money to buy it. I don’t wanna just chuck it out, even if it is beyond repair.” Phoenix paused, thinking for a moment. “Maybe you can do the same?” he asked. “I know it’s all cracked and the keys are missing, but it’s still your oboe. Then again, maybe you don’t wanna be reminded of how it got broken.”

Miles took the cloth away from his head. It was pink with watered-down blood from his scalp but there didn’t seem to be any fresh blood there. The bleeding had stopped, but his head still ached and his face felt sticky with dried blood. He was lucky Dahlia lacked the strength to hit harder – she probably could have fractured his skull.

“Thinking about it, that’s probably true,” Miles wiped his face with the cloth, scrubbing at his cheek and forehead to get the blood smears off. “If I got it back, every time I looked at it I’d be seeing Dahlia and her damn axe now. I suppose a part of me just doesn’t want to let go. A new oboe would still fit in my current case – it shouldn’t be the end of the world, I shouldn’t be feeling the way I do. Maybe it is just the shock.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re giving up playing the oboe or anything. You’re still Miles Edgeworth, oboe player; you just don’t have an oboe right now, that’s all. And same here: Phoenix Wright, trumpet player minus trumpet. We’ve still got our diplomas – Dahlia can’t take _those_ away from us!”

Miles was reminded of what Lana had said earlier. _Instruments can be replaced, instrumentalists cannot._ That made him think of Iris – the cold fear he’d felt at the sight of her sprawled out in a pool of blood on the floor, and the flood of relief after being told she was still alive. He had only spoken to Iris a few times in the month and a half they’d been rehearsing together, and yet such strong emotions had taken hold of him on seeing her like that. And then here was Phoenix, who he again had practically nothing in common with, trying to share the positive things he could salvage from the situation. There weren’t many, but it did make things seem a little less futile. However, Miles could see that Phoenix was just as upset about the loss of his trumpet – though he was trying to hide it to the best of his ability. It made Miles realise that the rest of the orchestra were probably feeling the same way.

_‘We’re all in this together’. He’s right. I’ve been here such a short time and don’t know them very well, but I can see the connection we all share. We look out for each other, because we’re an orchestra. I… belong to an orchestra._

It felt strange to be thinking that. But the feeling wasn’t a bad one.

“Yes…” he said finally. “We’ve lost what we play, but at least we’re all still here. We’re still together as friends.”

Phoenix was looking at him, a little surprised.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said slowly. “But that’s a bit of a strange thing for you to say.”

“Is it?” Miles was nonplussed. “But you said something similar earlier.”

“Uh, never mind. I guess you’re, um… yeah, shall I have another go at those splinters?” Phoenix nearly dropped the tweezers as he snatched them up with clumsy fingers.

“I can get them out myself now I’ve got a free hand – my head’s stopped bleeding,” Miles said, draping the wet cloth over the side of the first aid box. “Pass me the tweezers.”

“Don’t trust my first aid skills, huh?” Phoenix handed them over.

“Not exactly. At least if I do it myself I know when it’s going to-“ Miles gritted his teeth as he tugged one of the splinters out, “-hurt.”

_And I can steady my hand so it doesn’t shake._

“Fair enough,” Phoenix shrugged.

In the end Miles had to get him to help with some of the smaller ones, pinching the skin of his palm to bring the little slivers up so Phoenix could grab them and pull them out. Painting the antiseptic over his scratched hand hurt even more than pulling out the splinters.

“I haven’t used this stuff since I was a kid. I’d forgotten how much it damn well stang,” Miles shook his hand in the air to dry the bright orange antiseptic. The scratches were already starting to scab over.

“Now your hand looks radioactive,” Phoenix grinned, putting the top back on the antiseptic bottle and putting it back in the box. “I think that’s all we can do for now – I’d need ice and a needle for those tiny splinters that the tweezers wouldn’t get.”

“They’ll come up with some hot water,” Miles replied, looking at the swollen red blotches that had been left on his palm where Phoenix had tugged the smaller splinters out. “Besides, you’re heavy-handed enough with tweezers – my hand would be shredded if you went anywhere near it with a needle.”

“Gee, thanks a bunch!” Phoenix picked up the box. “That’s the last time I do any Boy Scout first aid on you.”

“Er, thankyou, though,” Miles added as an afterthought.

Phoenix rolled his eyes at that, then went off to return the first aid box. As he re-emerged from the box office there were quick footsteps from the corridor. The paramedics entered the lobby, accompanied by Lana. They carried Iris on their white stretcher. She was covered with a brown blanket up to her face, over which was an oxygen mask. Blood was still smeared across the side of her head that Phoenix could see, though the worst of it had been cleaned off. Miles caught a glimpse of the bright orange brace that had been strapped around her neck to immobilise her head, and the paramedic closest to him was carrying a portable heart monitor, the wires snaking up beneath the blanket.

“Everything okay?” Lana asked Miles, pausing briefly and letting the paramedics go on ahead. “The bleeding’s stopped?”

Miles nodded in reply, glancing towards the retreating backs of the paramedics.

“Is Iris-“

“She’s in safe hands,” Lana said quickly, then began walking again. “Go back to the cafeteria. I’ll be with you shortly.”

She increased her pace to catch up to the paramedics again, overtaking them to throw open the double doors, then they were through and out of sight. Miles and Phoenix exchanged dubious glances, and it was in silence that they traipsed back to the cafeteria, stopping off at the auditorium to pick up Miles’ oboe case. Miles felt a little more connected to the real world with the familiar leather handle in hand, but the lightness of the case without his oboe inside it renewed his sense of loss. However, he tried to push it down and lock it away, because he was about to join eleven other people who would also be going home with empty cases today. The silence between him and Phoenix melded into the gloomy atmosphere of the cafeteria as Phoenix pushed the door open.  



	7. Minor Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABRSM = Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music. I did check to make sure they did this exam in America. If there is another American equivalent more widely used then please let me know!

Maya was sitting on the floor, staring at nothing. Pearl lay against her with her eyes closed, tear tracks leaving shining trails on her cheeks. She had cried herself to sleep. Maggey walked over to them with a tray of the mugs of tea she had just made, tripping on an uneven floorboard and slopping a lot of the contents, but managing to save the tray from dropping onto the floor. She put a now half-empty mug by Maya’s feet, and went around doing the same for the others. Dick sat at the table, a cup noodle in front of him that he wasn’t really eating – he was just lifting the noodles up and letting them slide off the fork back into the pot again. Franziska was standing at the table, attempting to speak to him, but the irritated look on her face showed she was getting very little response.

Larry was sat next to Dick, making a precarious tower of sugar cubes on the tabletop. It kept falling down. He looked up occasionally to see if anyone else wanted to chat, face tense with discomfort but for once knowing better than to crack a joke to try and lighten the atmosphere. Will was cross-legged on the floor next to Mike, speaking quietly as Mike fidgeted with the good luck charm his mother had given him with a sad expression on his face. Ema was writing streams of formulae in her notebook, chewing on the end of her pen agitatedly before crossing them out and writing them out again. Her eyes were still red but no longer teary – now they were hard and angry, like Lana’s. Angel and Jake seemed to have disappeared, and Diego was pacing up and down the room but turned as they entered.

“Any news?” he growled.

“We saw the ambulance guys carry Iris out,” Phoenix said, raising his voice so the others could hear. “She looks beat up but Lana said she’s in good hands. Lana’s coming to talk to us all in a minute.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Will said, morose. “The concert will be cancelled – she doesn’t need to announce it or anything.”

“She can tell us how Iris is doing,” Maggey said, giving him a mug of tea.

“Where have Angel and Jake gone to?” Phoenix asked.

“They went for a walk,” Dick replied, pushing the cup noodle away from him.

“They wanted to blow off some steam,” Larry added. “Dahlia’d better watch out if she bumps into them!”

“Don’t mention her,” Ema said irritably, scribbling out another long equation. “Just don’t.”

“Those two are fools,” Franziska said loftily. “Do they expect to find her hidden in the bushes by the concert hall, awaiting retribution? Of course not – as if she would be foolish enough to stay in the vicinity after doing something like this-“

“Quiet, noisy mare,” Diego cut her off. “You only just got here, so stop acting like a damn authority on the situation – you don’t know a thing.”

The angry retort shocked her into silence, and when Maggey pushed a mug of tea into her hand she took it without a single complaint.

“Are you okay?” Maggey asked Miles, handing him a mug as well. “I can’t believe you were in the room with her! That, that-“ she mimed a chopping action with her free hand.

Miles flinched, then tried to disguise the action by raising the mug quickly to sip the tea. It was laden with sugar.

“Er,” he choked. “I’m…” he paused. “I’m fine.” The more he said it, the more false it sounded.

“Maggey, uh, I would stop with the chop-chop hand thing if I were you,” Phoenix said, taking a mug of tea from the young violist.

“Ah!” Maggey cried, looking at her hand in alarm. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I forgot the word I was looking for and I-“ she looked down at the empty tray sadly, dropping the offending hand to hang by her side. “I should just not talk about it. You know, I’m running around with cups of tea and trying to make people feel better but, well, it’s such an awful thing that’s happened… I have to repair or replace my viola all the time, but this is the first time it’s ever been broken by somebody else. It’s really strange, though. It’s such a terrible disaster, and yet I’m glad it wasn’t me that broke it for once. Is that wrong?” she asked tentatively.

“Not when it’s you, Maggey. Not when it’s you,” Phoenix took a mouthful of tea, then made a face. “Think there needs to be more tea with this sugar in the next batch.”

“Ah! I couldn’t remember which mugs I sugared and which I hadn’t, so some of them might’ve been done twice. I do apologise!”

Miles sat down on the floor next to Maya with his tea. He could have sat at the table, but Maya’s vacant stare had him concerned. Her mug of tea was still by her foot, untouched.

“Maya,” he began-

“I’m fine!” she immediately turned and smiled at him, voice bright but brittle. The smile was even more fragile, wavering at the corners.

It was no wonder Phoenix had been so quick to see through his own front earlier. But he could understand why she was doing it. Pearl was still sleeping against her; she had moved slightly and Miles could see crease lines on her cheek, imprinted by the folds of Maya’s dress that she was lying on. Her neck was cricked at an awkward angle to fit against Maya’s middle, and her fingers were still wrapped around the hem of her cousin’s purple robe, drawing it up towards her face. The fabric was darker in places, stained by tears.

“Yes, you’re fine,” he said quietly. “You need to be, for Pearl’s sake – whether you really are or not.”

Maya nodded, her smile collapsing away as she returned to staring ahead of her.

_This just isn’t fair. On either of them._

“But you can’t hold in your own sadness indefinitely. I know Pearl needs you, but she’s asleep now-“

“Don’t say that,” Maya’s voice cracked. “I have to be fine all the time whether she’s awake or asleep. If I let go now I really will fall to pieces…”

 _God, why_ did _I say that?_

“I-I understand. Forget that I mentioned it,” he said quickly.

_What was I even trying to do – get her to open up? Why would she, when she barely knows me? I should just leave her alone._

He grabbed his oboe case and moved to get up, but Maya turned back to look at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, watery at the corners. “You… you lost your oboe too, didn’t you? I saw it on the floor.”

Miles paused, tracing his thumb over the engraving on his oboe case.  
“…Yes.” With the reminder the empty feeling was returning – and on its heels, further regret. “I’m sorry.”

Maya looked at him blankly.

“What are you saying sorry for?”

“Er…” Miles realised he had just repeated his own disjointed thoughts with nothing to connect them. No wonder she was confused. “I, I meant that you lost your violin, and…”  
At that moment he realised it was an empty, stupid apology. He could have come back from lunch earlier, and maybe he would have interrupted Dahlia before she had the chance to butcher all the string instruments – but he hadn’t, and apologising for that wasn’t going to change anything now, or make Maya feel any better.

_I keep doing this wrong…_

“…It’s not even my violin.” Maya’s voice was lifeless now. “It was Sis’, and… and now, it’s all smashed apart, and-“ she broke off, tensing up.

It took Miles a moment to process the significance of what she had just said. Sis. Sister? But no one had ever mentioned that Maya had a sister. Not even Phoenix.

“Your… your sis-“

_Wait, I shouldn’t be asking about this – stop!_

But Maya was shaking her head, she could no longer speak and was pressing her finger across the bridge of her nose to try and hold back the tears that were starting to spill at the corners of her eyes. Miles froze, colour washing from his face. He should never have tried to get her to talk in the first place; he didn’t even have any words of consolation to offer her, only pathetic apologies. And now he was at a loss as to what to do, what to say, where to look-

It was Phoenix who shuffled up behind her on his knees and put his arms around her, holding her tight. She clutched at them, burying her face in his thick jumper sleeves to muffle her sobs to inaudibility while Pearl continued to sleep across her lap. Miles looked away, feeling like the worst thing on earth.

“Mia Fey died two years ago,” Phoenix said softly. “She was to be the master of the Kurain String School but she moved to the city to learn the trumpet. She taught me for a while – heard me playing an awful jazz rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in the mall and dragged me back to her place to teach me proper classical music. If it weren’t for her I’d still be busking now. Her violin, which she passed on to Maya, it’s… it was a del Gesu – the Kurain heirloom.”

Guarneri del Gesu, whose violins were second only to Stradivarius and just as rare. Miles remembered Maya’s violin being a deep, autumn brown, remembered it singing brightly in the fast passages of Appalachian Spring. He’d had no idea just how unique it really was. And Dahlia had just systematically destroyed it, like all the others.

_Damn it…_

The cafeteria door opened and Lana entered, followed by Jake and Angel. Maya raised her head and Phoenix released her – she took a deep, shaky breath, dashed the tears from her eyes and gently shook Pearl to wake her. Jake and Angel took seats at the table, and the others looked up at Lana, waiting for her to speak. For a moment the conductor said nothing, surveying the room. Her face was a little grey and her neck looked bare without the bright red muffler around it – Miles still had it bundled up beside him, the cashmere dotted with circles of dried blood. But her air of authority was still there, and she addressed them calmly.

“Iris has been taken to the Good Samaritan hospital – her condition is stable but she hasn’t regained consciousness yet. They will phone me if there’s any change. I have also contacted Mr. Gant – he sends his condolences and has notified the insurance company. They will cover the cost of new instruments for each of you. Though of course, some were irreplaceable,” she nodded at Maya, her eyes softened by regret. “The police arrived a few minutes ago – they are down in the storeroom photographing the scene and taking fingerprints. I have already informed them of who was responsible – they are doing everything within their power to track Dahlia down.”

“Like hell they’ll find her… slippery as a damn snake,” Jake murmured, but was silenced by a sharp glare from Lana.

“Keep your pessimism to yourself, Marshall – nothing is set in stone,” Lana said, turning back to the others. “While the police are doing their job,” she continued, “we must move on and do ours. The concert will be rescheduled for the near future – the insurance money will be through by the end of the week, I am told, so you will have new instruments almost straight away-”

“Ha! Waste no time or the coffee will cool, is that the idea, Lana?” Diego smacked his palm on the table. “And what of Iris? Here you are, talking concert schedules, and she’s not even made it to the damn hospital. Are you writing her off already?”

“Did I, for _one minute_ , say that I was?” Lana’s precise retort rang through the cafeteria, the sharpness of it ricocheting off the blank walls. A short silence followed it.

“…No. No, you didn’t.” Diego leaned against the table, inclining his head to her in apology.

“You need to cool your head, Diego Armando,” Franziska said haughtily. “Foolish anger leads all too readily to misinterpretation-“ she stopped, feeling Dick grab her firmly by the arm, and when she looked down he was shaking his head at her.

“And then somebody else jumps in to have the last word, eh, Franzy?” Larry winked.

Franziska flushed, glaring at him, but the point was taken. She shook her arm out of Dick’s grip, folding her arms and standing in silence. She would not interrupt again.

“If Iris is willing to rejoin us after everything that has happened,” Lana said when she was certain no further outbursts were forthcoming, “I hope you will all welcome her back and support her. If she is willing, then the concert shall be rescheduled in the near future, as I said – for a time when she is well enough to play again and you have all become accustomed to your new instruments.”

There were nods of agreement from most of the orchestra, but Angel had something to say.

“And what if Iris doesn’t want to come back?” Angel pointed out. “Her and _Dahlia_ ,” she spat the word, “were always joined at the hip – I doubt she’d be able to deal with us all talking about how much we hated her dear, dear sister who couldn’t do a-“

“Hang on,” Phoenix interjected. “What makes you think she’s going to defend Dahlia in the first place? She tried to stop her breaking everyone’s stuff and Dahlia just turned around and attacked her. Don’t tar her with Dahlia’s brush, she’s a completely different person!”

“Hmph. And you’re trying to suggest that she didn’t know her sister was planning to be a vandalistic little ratbag today? Like I said, those two go everywhere together – she must have known, so why didn’t she tell-“

“Hold it!”

They both turned to look at Miles, who had stood up. He was looking across at Lana, who had just opened her mouth to say the same thing, but she nodded at him to continue.

“Dahlia did all this because she couldn’t play the second flute part for Appalachian Spring,” he began. “So think about Iris. She hasn’t had any problems with the first flute part – wouldn’t Dahlia detest her just as much as she did the rest of us? Why, then, would Dahlia tell Iris about what she planned to do? I don’t think Iris knew at all, and we shouldn’t be putting blame on her when we don’t know the full story.”

“Hear hear,” Dick declared. “I don’t think she had anything to do with it, and what the hell kind of people are we, to be talking about her like this when she’s on her way to hospital?”

“That’s right,” Will agreed from his spot in the corner.

“I… I think she was brave!” Mike added. “She did The Right Thing. And if I had been there, I would have done the same!” he slammed a fist to his chest proudly.

“She probably woulda smashed you in the head in jus’ the same way, but I hear you,” Jake said, nodding.

“And at the end of the day, we shouldn’t be talking about it by the time Iris comes back anyway,” Phoenix concluded. “Like Lana said, we’ve got to move on from this.”

Angel sighed.

“Alright, alright,” she put up her hands. “I’m just angry right now, and I can’t help but feel a little resentful, however irrational it is.”

“You and the rest of us,” Diego grunted.

“Perhaps it’s best if we focus that into something different,” Lana said. “I have decided,” she addressed them all, “that it would be best to drop _Appalachian Spring_ from the concert programme permanently. And I’m open to suggestions for an alternative set piece to replace it. So get thinking.”

This was met with a shocked silence.

“You’re… dropping it?” Phoenix asked slowly. “After all those weeks we spent getting it right?”

“I know you’ve all put a lot of time into it – I could not have asked for more dedication from all of you,” Lana replied, “but it’s still not a polished performance. Not compared to the other pieces in the programme… and I think I put too much pressure on you all to get it up to the standard that I was expecting in the short time we had. Perhaps if I had faced up to that, and substituted something less ambitious from the beginning, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.” Her eyes were cast down and her hands clasped together against her skirt as she said this, the guilt clear to see. “The last thing I want is to remind you of what has happened by making you play that damn Copland piece again. I owe you all an apology for forcing it on you in the first place.”

_What are you saying sorry for?_

As Lana spoke Miles remembered Maya’s words from earlier, her blank stare and his cack-handed attempts to speak to her. Because of that he could see the flaw in Lana’s logic, and after what Phoenix had said in the foyer he knew he had to raise an objection.

“Wait. Why are you apologising to us, Lana?” his words settled in the quiet that had fallen on the room, and the others turned to look at him. “After all… we can all play this piece. Whether it’s the standard part, or a simpler one,” he gestured towards Pearl, “we managed it. Not polished, maybe, but by the time the next concert comes round, it’ll be ready for sure. There’s only one person you would be apologising to by dropping the piece from the programme – and that’s Dahlia. And we,” his voice began to rise with his vehemence, “we don’t owe her an apology for _anything_!”

For a few moments the others processed this, then talking broke out behind him, a hubbub of “Yeah,” “I guess,” “That’s right,” “Damn straight!”, then Phoenix spoke up,

“Wouldn’t it be the best way of sticking up two fingers at Dahlia, to put it on at the next concert and blow the audience away?”

“I want to show her,” Pearl said fiercely, getting to her feet, “I want to show her that a simple part can sound just as nice as a hard one when we’re all playing together – and even though she’s ruined my cello, when I get another I’m still going to play my part better than she could ever play hers!”

Miles looked over at Maya, but she was still sat on the floor, the words of the others passing over her head. However, she was looking up at Pearl, listening to her, and imperceptibly she nodded her agreement, though she still said nothing.

“There’s one big problem with this,” Lana said loudly over them all. “I can understand your feelings on the matter, but the decision to drop the piece is also for practical reasons – _Appalachian Spring_ requires two flautists. The first and second flute parts had already been modified to take up the string harmonies, and some of the core sections just aren’t possible with a single flute. It will take myself and Mr. Gant months to find another flautist of diploma standard who is willing to travel. We shall have to do the first half of this year’s tour without a second flute, and believe me when I say I shall need to substantially alter your parts in the other pieces to compensate for it.”

“…Oh,” Pearl said sadly.

“Not a lot to be done about that, then, is there?” Diego shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to come up with something else we can play well.”

“That… just sucks,” Phoenix sighed, sitting down on one of the chairs.

“What about transferring the flute line to clarinet?” Larry suggested.

“That wouldn’t work,” Ema replied. “There’s no way either of us could play that high.”

“You wouldn’t need to do any of that,” Miles said, stepping forward. “I’ll play the flute line, Lana.”

Lana gave him an odd look.

“You can’t play high enough either,” she said, peering at him. “How’s that bump on the head?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my head. I’m saying I can play the flute line. On a flute.”

“But you can’t play the flute,” Lana was a bit nonplussed. “It wasn’t on your application, I remember seeing it – oboe and cor anglais, yes, but no flute.”

“Well, I’m not diploma level on the flute,” Miles admitted. “That’s why it’s not on the application – it did say to list diploma level instruments. But… if you need a flautist, I can probably pass the diploma exam in a month.”

“In a month?!” Ema burst out. “That’s crazy, nobody can do a diploma in a month.”

But Lana was looking at him shrewdly.

“A month, you say?” she asked. “You really think you can do it?”

Miles nodded.

“I’ve already been practicing the diploma pieces for a while,” he explained. “I’d been turned down at so many auditions that I thought having a diploma in a third instrument would help my chances – before I got accepted here. I was going to take the exam in the winter, but I can bring it forward.”

“But what about the oboe line?” Phoenix asked. “Who’s gonna play that?”

“Nobody, I suppose,” Miles shrugged. “The oboe line’s fairly sparse throughout. If the flute line’s more important, I’ll play that. I can always swap between the two during the piece if it comes to it.”

“It’s doable,” Lana said thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, it’s doable. Very well, if Iris agrees to play, we shall do it.”

As the others cheered and Will clapped Miles on the back, Phoenix was staring at Miles as if the oboe player had gone completely mad. This wasn’t the same Miles Edgeworth he had argued with in the empty church hall six weeks ago. That Miles would never abandon his precious oboe part for anything. Then again… Miles looked very uncomfortable as Maggey jumped on him to give him a massive hug, and was waving his hands frantically to ward off Ema and Pearl who were about to do the same thing. Perhaps he hadn’t changed so much. Phoenix spotted Maya standing at a distance from the others. Her eyes were still red but she had a faint smile on her face. He went to stand next to her.

“You okay?” he asked.

“If everyone else can come through this, then so can I,” Maya said quietly. “Sis would want me to, and…” she bundled her hands into fists, summoning up her best look of determination, “and we’re enough people down without me flaking out as well! There’s other violins at the String School I can use – they’re not del Gesus, but hey, I was always relying on the del Gesu timbre to hide the fact that I’m not fully trained. I’ll just have to work hard to make up for it!” Her voice was shaky, but the resolve beneath was true enough.

“You worked hard to begin with, Maya,” Phoenix replied. “You always have. Besides, I don’t think many people will actually notice the difference in sound quality between the del Gesu and another violin. I dunno about anyone else, but I can barely pick out the difference between you and Maggey when you’re playing at the same time-”

“Nick!” Maya said indignantly. “How can you mix up the sounds of a violin and a _viola_?! The two sound completely different!”

“I’m special like that.”

“Special _lunkhead_ more like!”

“Oh, I am _wounded_ , so deep,” Phoenix doubled over in mock pain, then something caught his attention and he looked up, straightening up. “Hey, Lana’s on her cellphone.”

Maya turned to look. Lana had her finger in one ear, cellphone pressed to the other, and was heading towards the cafeteria doors, but she stopped halfway there and took the phone away, terminating the call.

“Orchestra!” she shouted, and the others stopped talking immediately, turning to face her. “Iris woke up when they were putting her on the ward – they haven’t finished the full medical exam yet but they’re pretty sure she’s going to be okay.”

The relief she saw on their faces said it all, really.

***

“Of course I want to come back!” Iris protested, shifting the pillows behind her so she could sit up properly. “I never wanted to leave, I…” she paused, looking down. “I’m so sorry. To all of you…”

“Sorry?” Phoenix said in confusion. “But why? Dahlia’s to blame for all of this, you’ve nothing to apologise for!”

He, Miles and Lana were the first trio to be allowed in to visit Iris – the others were waiting out in the corridor for their turn and they had all bought in little gifts for her to ease the boredom of her hospital stay. The blow Dahlia had given her had been hard enough to cause a minor internal haemorrhage, it turned out, and so the doctors had insisted she stay in for the rest of the week so they could keep an eye on her.

“No… I’m just as much to blame,” Iris was pale now, the only contrast against her skin was the strands of black hair escaping from beneath the large bandage wound around her head. “I have a confession to make, and if you don’t want me back in the orchestra after this, I’d… I’d understand.”

“Iris,” Lana said gravely. “I think I know what you’re about to admit to. It’s something I’ve suspected for a while.”

“You… you know?” Iris pressed back against the pillows, drawing the blanket up to her chest. “I… I would’ve said, I was going to, at the concert, because I thought Dahlia was just going to disappear after the rehearsal and I would’ve had to explain, and… oh, I am so ashamed!” she sobbed, and Lana gathered her into her arms while Miles and Phoenix sat in awkward silence, not knowing what to say.

“It doesn’t matter, Iris,” Lana said softly. “For heaven’s sake, after all she’s put you through, the last thing I’m going to do is haul you up for that. I’m just glad that you’re okay, and it doesn’t matter anyway – we’ve just got you now, and I know your diploma is genuine, and well deserved.”

It took a few seconds for the significance of Lana’s words to sink in, but when they did Miles and Phoenix turned to look at each other, the penny dropping at the same time.

 

“Iris,” Miles asked, eyes wide. “Did you… did you stand in for Dahlia at her diploma exam?”

“…Yes,” Iris gulped, wiping away some of the tears on her face with the sleeve of her hospital nightgown.

“What, you did?!” Phoenix burst out. “How the hell did she-“ Miles kicked him in the shin and he stopped, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“ ’How did she manage that?’ ” Iris asked dejectedly, slumping back against the pillows. “She tricked me. I knew she couldn’t afford to retake the diploma exam – neither of us could, we’d saved every penny to pay the fee – so she pretended to come down with a throat infection. She even showed me the box of penicillin she got from the doctor. So I offered to take it for her. I actually offered!” she wailed. “I’m so stupid – the penicillin wasn’t even hers, I found it in the trash the week after I’d passed her diploma and it had someone else’s name on the label. I confronted her about it, and then she admitted she could play the diploma pieces fine but was too scared to take the actual exam… so I just, well,” she hung her head, cheeks flushed with shame. “I left it, because I was scared that if I told the examiner the ABRSM would take away my diploma too...”

Lana nodded.

“They probably would have, yes,” she said. “I think Dahlia knew that from the start – it was a way of buying your silence. I only realised things weren’t what they seemed because of the Copland piece. It’s of diploma standard – I expected Pearl to struggle, I had a simplified part already written for her, but Dahlia surprised me. However, the reason was clear.”

“That means… she lied about being able to play the diploma pieces too, didn’t she?” Phoenix shook his head, amazed at the scale of the deception. “You can get away with an ABRSM Grade 8 for most of our other stuff but _Appalachian Spring_ , no chance.”

“Yes,” Iris said miserably. “Sitting next to her I could hear the number of notes she was skipping out in the runs. She just couldn’t manage it, and yet she was so angry when Lana downgraded her part. If I’d told you sooner, Lana… even before the rehearsal started Dahlia had said to me that she was going to walk out afterwards and not come back, but I never had the chance to say anything because she was always there watching me. But if I’d said something, this never would have happened! I didn’t know she had that enormous axe in her bag till she got it out down in the storeroom; we’d gone down there because she said she’d forgotten something, and then she just started breaking everything! I deserved to be hit in the head like that for what I’ve-”

“Shush, Iris,” Lana said firmly, patting her on the shoulder. “She nearly killed you and you never, ever deserved that. Things can’t be changed now, so stop apologising. You’ve told the truth, that’s what matters.”

At that order Iris fell quiet for a few moments. That was when the nurse popped her head around the door to announce that their visiting time was over. Then Iris said,

“If telling the truth is what matters, then I have to tell everybody. That’s the only way I can face up to what I’ve done.”

“Are you sure?” Lana asked, getting up. “I can tell them for you.”

“No,” Iris was resolute. “I have to look you all in the eye and accept that what I did was wrong. If I don’t do that, I’m no better than my sister.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned,” Phoenix said, standing up as well, “Dahlia conned you and I’m never gonna hold that against you – for as long as I live.”

“Seconded,” Miles agreed, putting the carton of grapes he’d bought on her bedside table. “Eat those when you can – they’re good ones but they won’t last forever.”

“Oh,” Phoenix mumbled, looking at the grapes. “Maybe we shoulda gotten together beforehand and figured out what we were gonna bring in?” he held up the blue and white striped grocery bag he’d been carrying, through which Miles could see another carton of grapes.

“Hm. My mistake,” Lana said, getting another carton out of her shoulder bag. “Ema told me you liked them – looks like she told everyone else as well.”

Iris laughed, wiping fresh tears from her eyes.

“Thankyou,” she said, “I’m lucky to have friends like you – I really am.”

“Hey!” the nurse said crossly, standing in the doorway. “I said you three were to leave – come on, out you go.”

“You’re coming to New York with us on Saturday week, right?” Phoenix asked Iris. “The Great Travelling Symphony Shopping Spree!”

“Yes,” Iris replied. “I… need a new flute.” Hers had been found by the police under one of the shelves, lying in a puddle of black paint and dented beyond repair.

“Hey, you may even be able to get an upgrade! Just wait till we’re all kitted out,” Phoenix said gleefully. “We’re gonna be bigger and better than ever!”

“I’m not sure where you got the _bigger_ part of that from,” Miles said blithely.

“Out!” the nurse pointed towards the door, and finally they went, Iris waving to them as they left. It was Dick, Mike and Will’s turn to see her, and as they passed Miles noticed that they each carried a carton of grapes, a sheepish look on their faces.


	8. Duet

The squeak was so out of the blue that Maya, Pearl and Maggey stopped mid-phrase. Miles stopped too, head down to hide his embarrassment. Only Angel and Diego had continued playing, watching Lana’s signals, but then Lana stopped them as well.

“Honestly!” Lana said, hands on hips as she addressed the other four. “We’re a supposedly professional orchestra and yet you all stop at the first sign of anything unexpected!”

“Was that you squeaking?” Angel asked Miles. “I thought it was a mouse in one of the organ pipes again.”

“Er, yes,” Miles mumbled. “That was me.”

They were playing the opening to _Pavane_ , and Miles’ oboe was the only melody instrument playing in the first few bars, making the squeak even more obvious.

“Hm. That’s the cork settling, isn’t it?” Lana asked, and Miles nodded in reply, running through a scale and producing another squeak on the B flat. “Damn. Well, better now then later, I suppose. Let us start again, from the where the melody line enters,” she raised her baton and counted them in, but even on the first note there was a loud squeak from Miles’ direction and Pearl and Maya broke down into fits of laughter.

“This is no laughing matter!” Lana told them crossly, and they tried their best to stop. “Miles, can you do anything about that squeak or are we stuck with it for the rest of the rehearsal?”

Miles was trying the keys. He could feel that some of them were becoming loose, a result of the cork inside his new oboe changing shape as he broke it in. That was what was causing the squeak.

“I’ll have to wait till it’s fully settled,” he said. “Then I can readjust the keys.”

“Does that happen with all woodwind instruments?” Phoenix asked from behind him.

“No, just oboes, clarinets and the like,” Miles replied. “But oboes are the worst for it because they’re thinner. It’ll take a little while to sort itself out. In the meantime, well,” he played another squeaky Bb. “I don’t have the plastic one with me today so I can’t change over. Sorry.”

“Very well, sit out for now. I suppose we shall have to move onto the string part,” Lana said resignedly. “From bar sixty, please, strings – and I don’t care if the sky is falling on your heads, you still keep playing no matter what! Understood?”

“Yes, Lana,” they chorused.

There was a rustle of sheet music as they turned their pages, and then they began to play.

As he wasn’t playing, instead Miles watched the string section. Diego had gone for a darker wood with his new double bass – even his tanned hands looked pale against its body as he plucked the pizzicato accompaniment. Pearl was also playing her line pizzicato – she had a dreamy look on her face as she played, for the replacement cello the Kurain String School had sourced for her had a much mellower sound to it that she loved. Miles had to admit, when Pearl and Diego were playing at the same time the timbres of the instruments blended together much better than their previous ones had. Maya was playing the melody line, brow furrowed with concentration. She seemed to have that expression more often these days, and Miles had wondered if she was having to adjust her technique to make up for not having the del Gesu to play on. But on asking she had said it was actually easier.

“With a violin as old as a del Gesu, you can’t play it in the same way as you would a modern violin,” Maya had explained to him. “You have to kinda… coax the sound outta the strings, but it’s worth it ‘cause you get a sound that’s completely different to any other violin. It’s pretty hard work. But this one I’ve got now is a Gama, and whoa! It’s so easy to make it sound nice – I feel like I’m cheating with it, really. But I have to channel the music more to make up for not having the warmer timbre I had with the del Gesu.” She’d then gone on to explain some more meditation mumbo-jumbo that went over his head, but he got the gist of it.

There were even times when her eyes fell closed as she played, and he could have sworn the tone of her violin sounded different on those infrequent occasions. It did strange things to his stomach when he heard it like that, especially during the more haunting bars of the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. But he put it down to the overall feel of the piece – he had an organ recording of it at home and depending on his mood the harmonics of the organ would send shivers down his spine. He had put it on a few weeks back, and while reading the back of the CD case he noticed for the first time that the organist’s name was Damon Gant.

Angel Starr was playing with Maya on the melody line. She had the same implacable look on her face as she always did. She seemed able to play her way through anything, with the ease and confidence that came with years of experience.

“I don’t think it’s any better or worse than what I had,” she had said noncommittally about her new violin, which she had picked off the shelf in the New York store, played a few rapid pieces on and bought straight away. “When you get to my level violins are like men – you know what you like and if you stick to the reputable ones you can’t go wrong, really.”

When she came out with things like that, Miles couldn’t help but feel sorry for the legions of boyfriends she claimed to have.

Lana motioned to the trumpets to be ready – she was about to bring them in on top of the strings. Miles heard rustling behind him as brass instruments were lifted to lips. The Pavane was a quiet piece and after shouting at them half a dozen times Lana had finally managed to get Phoenix and Mike executing a tightly controlled decrescendo after their mezzoforte appearance in the melody line. It didn’t actually sound too bad now; they meshed with the strings instead of drowning them out. Phoenix’s new trumpet had a slightly more muted sound compared with the brash brightness of its predecessor, but while it fit in well against the string harmonies, the colour of it completely clashed against everybody else’s instruments.

_I can’t believe he wasted the remainder of his insurance payout on getting the damn thing tinted blue._

As Miles predicted, Lana had given Phoenix a thorough scolding for his colour choice when she saw it at the first rehearsal after their shopping trip. But he had taken it stoically, for they both knew that it was too late to change it.

“I’ve always wanted a blue trumpet,” he’d revealed to Miles later, “but the only blue ones you can get are the cruddy beginner ones – if you want a real blue on a nice trumpet it has to be a tint. It was worth a barbecuing from Lana to get one like this; I’d never be able to afford it otherwise!”

A section was coming up that Miles was supposed to be playing in. His fingers itched to play it so he occupied himself with testing the keys again. The Bb key was the loosest, but he could feel a few others were on their way. It had been over fifteen years since he’d last broken in an oboe. He only had dim memories of the sleepless nights and tired days in which he’d done it last time, but he remembered the squeak well enough. It had come during one of the rare occasions that he let his foster family hear him play, and they had patted him on the shoulder and told him he sounded wonderful, which made his skin crawl. They really had no idea about music at all.

This section sounded a bit empty without Miles leading the main melody. Ema and Larry were playing harmonies on their clarinets. Changing to a rubber clarinet had been the best thing he’d ever done, Larry had proclaimed a few rehearsals ago.

“Practically bombproof! I could smack Ema in the head with it and it wouldn’t even have a scratch-”

“Don’t you DARE!” Ema growled. “I’ll smack a chair in yours – not wasting my new clarinet on your thick skull!”

“Psh, sticks and stones, Science Gal. You couldn’t hit me with your clarinet anyway – it’s plastic, it’d fall to bits if you so much as turned it upside down-“

“Your plastic one was fine till you bloody sat on it last year!”

“Ema, mind your language,” Lana cut in sternly.

“Tell him, Lana,” Ema said indignantly. “Plastic’s just as good as rubber – you had a plastic clarinet, you tell him!”

“Plastic, wood and rubber all have their own merits and pitfalls, so quiet down, both of you,” Lana folded her arms. “As long as you have an instrument that will survive the winter half of the tour, I don’t really care what type you have!”

Miles had been warned about this – they would be playing in conditions that would not be kind to their instruments, and it was the woodwind and string sections that fared the worst. Wood did not deal well with changes in temperature, and while Lana had equipment to safeguard their instruments on the move between cities, there was nothing to protect them when they were out in whatever concert hall or bandstand they ended up in. With this in mind he had added his savings that he had hoarded from his Broadway wages to the insurance money he’d been given, and had bought two oboes. One plastic, for when they were touring, and one wood, because the thought of not having a wooden oboe seemed like a kind of sacrilege.

When changing from plastic to wood after his diploma the difference in sound quality had amazed him, and he had always regarded plastic as an inferior material for an instrument. But the thought of losing another wooden one forced him to make the choice, and as it turned out the professional grade plastic ones sounded hardly any different from his wooden one, and best of all, didn’t need breaking in. He wished he’d brought the plastic one along today – sitting out was a bit dull, he was finding. But while he didn’t mind using the plastic one for the tour, at home and for rehearsals he always preferred to play the wooden one.

He’d changed to a rosewood oboe, and hearing the soft, rich tone it produced gave him a kind of pleasure he had not experienced in a long time. He had dug out all his old sheet music and played it all again, old favourites sounding new to his ears. The truth was, he should have upgraded to full conservatory keywork years ago, but he had held on, not wanting to part with what he had. Now, having been forced to, he felt a little foolish for not having upgraded, and in his head he said a silent apology to his father for holding himself back over the last ten years. Now he felt much more inclined to experiment with the tone and mould his technique to the feel of the music, especially as the oboe’s sound was maturing while he broke it in. Lana had commented that his solo sounded completely different, much more free-flowing. He was quite pleased with how it was sounding now.

The _Pavane_ was into its final bar, and as the last notes faded away Lana nodded, satisfied, then signalled that they could take a five minute break to chat. He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around – Phoenix was grinning at him.

“You look like a lost puppy, sat all slouched in the chair like that.”

“It’s just strange, hearing all my sections go by and not coming in on cue,” Miles confessed.

“Yeah, guess I can see where you’re coming from – probably more like, it feels weird to hear ‘em all go by without Lana shouting at you for missing them!”

“Hm, maybe that’s it.”

“What was that?” Lana said sharply.

“Nothing!” they both said hastily. How could she hear them over the hubbub of everyone else talking?

“Get your flute ready,” she told Miles. “We’re moving onto _Appalachian Spring_ next.”

Miles put together his flute, turning to the right page in his sheet music folder and wincing at the sight of all the demisemiquavers. He was already practicing flute all day for the diploma exam next week, and the part in front of him was complex – practicing at home he’d been playing at half speed in order to get the notes right. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage playing them all at tempo, but he had put himself forward for this and was determined to master it.

Practice was slower than usual, mainly because he kept flubbing the notes as he tried to keep up with the pace, but Lana was patient with him and they did bars over and over again until he’d gotten the timing correct. As time went on his stamina began to give out, the familiar lightheadedness setting in – too many high notes, and not enough time to breathe in between. If he wasn’t careful he would faint, and he was grateful for the occasional break while Lana was explaining something to him. The rest of the orchestra were getting bored with all the repeats, he could tell, but they did not complain and he felt mounting frustration on his own part that he was having these difficulties. If only he could play this part an octave lower on the oboe – that would be no problem! But wishing wasn’t going to help him here, so he tried to persevere.

“Are you coming to the diner?” Phoenix asked Miles after the rehearsal. “I’ll catch you guys up!” he called to the others as they left.

“No,” Miles said flatly, dismantling his flute and packing it up. “Exam’s next week, remember?”

“Yeah, but… you’ve gotta have a break sometime, y’know?”

“After I’ve passed the exam, then I’ll think about breaks. But then again maybe not, seeing as I’ve two different parts to learn for the _same piece_ , not to mention having to sit down with Lana to work out where I can swap instruments so both parts get equal coverage, _and_ -“

“Okay. I get the message.”

Miles looked up from the pile of sheet music he was assembling. Phoenix was already turning away to pick up his trumpet case. Miles knew he ought to say something, apologise for snapping because he didn’t really mean it, just like Phoenix hadn’t really meant to annoy him with the remark. But he was tired, and more than anything else he just wanted to leave, to go home and sleep. Except he couldn’t, because he had more practice to do.

So he let it go, closing up his sheet music folder and pushing it into his satchel, shoving at it roughly when it wouldn’t go all the way in. Then he stood, ready to leave. Phoenix slung his trumpet case over his shoulder and picked up his own folder of sheet music. Then he paused, just as Miles had done.

Miles had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, aware of the awkward atmosphere hanging over them both. But the tension in the air only served to irritate him further, and against his instinct he began to walk away. He wasn’t expecting the tap on his shoulder, it made him jump, and he span around furiously to demand,

“What?!”

Iris’ eyes widened and she took a step back, alarmed, dropping her hand. Phoenix was already halfway down the other aisle but he turned at Miles’ outburst. Miles stared at Iris angrily for a second before realising what he’d just done, and with that his anger evaporated, to be replaced by horror. He took a step back too, paling.

“Iris, I-“

“I… I’m sorry to bother you!” Iris burst out, backing away further, then she turned around and ran past Phoenix, down the aisle.

“Iris!” Miles shouted, turning to run down the aisle parallel to hers. “Iris, wait, I’m-“ but she had a head start and disappeared out through the front doors. He stopped running, coming to a standstill in the middle of the aisle, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he watched the empty doorway.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he murmured, rubbing at one eye and then at the bridge of his nose to try and quell the pounding headache that had started up.

He heard a sound behind him, and as he turned to look Phoenix came up to stand next to him. The trumpet player waited, as if expecting Miles to say something. Miles couldn’t think of anything to say. There wasn’t really anything to excuse his display. In response Phoenix inclined his head toward the door, the offer of company a silent indication that he understood. Neither of them said anything as they crossed the porch and headed towards Miles’ car. When they got there, Phoenix watched Miles open up the car and put his oboe on the passenger seat, slotting the key into the ignition to switch on the heater. Then he finally broke the silence.

“Do you want Iris’ cell number?”

“Yes…” Miles said slowly, shutting the car door. He was at a loss as to how best to apologise to her. “Yes, please.”

Phoenix fished out his cell phone, cycling through the numbers. He handed the phone to Miles, who transferred the number into his own phone address book.

“Phoenix…” Miles began, handing the phone back to him. “I don’t know why you’re still here. Anyone else would’ve, well-“

“Walked out and left you standing there, feeling like a jerk?” Phoenix suggested.

“Yes,” Miles hung his head. “I was a jerk. To Iris, and to you as well.”

“Well, at least you agree – though leave me out of that,” Phoenix replied. “I was a jerk for trying to make you come to the diner; it was pretty obvious you were tired, so I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry, that was me being se- uh. That, I mean to say,” he foundered a little, “uh, so yeah, I’ve seen you in a bad mood but you’ve never gone off on one like that before. You didn’t really mean to bite Iris’ head off, right?”

“No,” Miles shook his head. “I just…” Something had snapped, and he’d lashed out. He still felt a little rattled by it.

The last time he could remember doing something like that was during the run of _The Producers_ – he’d tripped over one of the guitar leads in the orchestra pit, and only by landing painfully on one shoulder had he saved his oboe from being dashed against the ground. The guitarist had apologised, even though it wasn’t his fault – it was the job of the techs to tape down all the leads – but nonetheless he had railed at the youth so furiously that the conductor had to step between them, worried it would come to blows. Remembering that reminded him why he had lost his temper back then. It was the day after he’d pulled an allnighter to practice the parts he was taking on while the clarinettist was on holiday. He had been tired and not watching where he put his feet.

As tired as he felt right now.

“I don’t normally do things like that. Not unless I’m really,” he caught himself before he said the word. “Er.”

There was no point trying to hide it, not after what had happened a few minutes ago. He may as well have shouted it from the rooftops.

“Not unless I’m really stressed,” he said, a little ashamed. All Iris had done was tap him on the shoulder, and he had responded with such ferocity. It was no wonder she had run away from him. “I must have terrified her. If I’d known she was there I never would have…” he sighed, leaning against the side of the car and putting his cold hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “I don’t even know what she was going to ask me.”

“I do,” Phoenix said. “She was going to offer to go through the second flute part with you and help out with some of the technical stuff. She was waiting behind you when I was asking you to come to the diner, and I was shaking my head at her to tell her to leave it… but she misunderstood me, I guess. Um, I have to admit,” he grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, “I did try to talk her out of it when she mentioned it to me earlier, because I was sure you’d turn her down. But she was pretty determined. You wouldn’t have accepted it anyway, right?”

“I would have!” Miles began to protest, but Phoenix just gave him a look. “I…” Miles stopped. “No. Okay, no. You’re right. I would have turned her down.”

“That’s what I thought. But I’m kinda glad she tried to ask you anyway, because you just said so yourself - you’re stressed. And it’s because of the flute part, isn’t it? Everything you said when I asked you to come to the diner was true – you’ve got a load on your plate right now, trying to study for your diploma and learn another bunch of sheet music at the same time. So why not accept Iris’ offer? It’ll make your life easier and then maybe you won’t be chewing people out so much.”

Miles didn’t say anything for a moment, thinking.

“I’ll get better with practice,” he said. “I’ll have it up to tempo by next week.” He went to open the car door, planning to leave, but Phoenix planted his hand against the handle, stopping him from opening it.

“Your diploma exam’s next week! When are you gonna find time to practice the part on top of all that?” Phoenix asked. “Pulling more allnighters, right?”

“If I have to. Today’s rehearsal was an embarrassment – I’m not having everyone repeat bars over and over for me again.”

“Geez, why is practicing all night your answer to everything? It’s not gonna do you any favours when the piece is that difficult - Iris could probably tell you half the things you’re staying up to learn!”

“It’s not difficult.”

“Liar, if that was true you’d have it down pat by now. I can see the sheet music over your shoulder – it looks awful. And you’re getting breathless during the faster passages, even after having a break.”

“It was my first time playing it at tempo – that won’t be an issue next time.”

“Oh, so your stamina’s going to magically increase overnight?” Phoenix said sarcastically. “You’re making excuses.”

“I volunteered for this – do you think I would have done if I didn’t think I could do it?”

“I know you can do it, but it’s not the kind of piece you can nail in a night! Can’t you just accept that it’s actually a tricky one and your usual tactics aren’t gonna work?”

“It’s only hard because I haven’t practiced enough.”

“Augh!” Phoenix threw his hands up, stepping away from the car. “There’s no telling you, is there? How about I go stand over there and talk to that empty parking space, huh? ‘Cause you’re not listening to a thing I’m saying.”

“But you’re not listening to me either! How am I supposed to get better if I don’t practice? My days are full with the diploma pieces – if I don’t pull some late nights I’ll be just as bad next rehearsal.”

“Why is that such a big deal, Miles?” Phoenix demanded. “Lana was amazed you’d had any time to practice at all, what with the exam being next week. Nobody’s expecting you to be note-perfect when you’re still learning the part!”

“I hate making mistakes.”

“Oh, I was forgetting – the great Miles Edgeworth never drops a note. That’s why you won’t have Iris go through your part, isn’t it?” Phoenix retorted. “You don’t want her to hear you screwing it up.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is! Admit it, you’re just not used to finding things difficult – that’s why you’re too stubborn to ask for help!”

“I shouldn’t _need_ any help!”

“If that’s the case then why are you having to practice all night in the first place? Think about it!”

Phoenix had tripped him up on his own argument. That was _infuriating_. He gave the trumpet player a baleful look, trying to come up with a suitable counter. But he was fighting a losing corner.

“It is difficult, isn’t it?” Phoenix said. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t – you haven’t got your diploma yet, and even then it wouldn’t be easy as you haven’t got the experience. Iris can help you out if you’ll let her-“

“I can’t! End of!”

“But _why not_?”

“You don’t get it, do you? She already sus-“ Miles cut himself off, realising he’d just put his foot in it.

_Damn it!_

“Just drop it, Phoenix – I’ll apologise to her, I owe her that, but I can’t-“

“She suspects what?”

“Nothing!”

Phoenix looked at him shrewdly. Miles shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, then abruptly broke the eye contact, reaching for the car door handle.

“Hold it.”

Miles ignored that and opened the door, about to get into the driver’s seat.

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that before – even when I told her you preferred to do things on your own, she was still determined to offer. You say you shouldn’t _need_ any help, so why does she think that you do? You know that, don’t you?”

Miles paused, glad his back was to Phoenix. His face would have given him away.

“When did you pass your Grade Eight?”

Miles shut the door again. He sighed, mentally kicking himself for the earlier slip-up, then turned to face the trumpet player.

“Don’t you dare tell Lana,” he said.

“I won’t tell her, or anybody else. Just tell me.”

“…Six months ago.”


	9. Cantabile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benjamin Britten was a 20th century English composer whose works were, shall we say, not mainstream in sound, and Phoenix and Miles’ little exchange on him is inspired by a conversation between my oboeist friend and my mother. Admittedly they both couldn’t stand his pieces – you can have a listen to one of his Metamorphoses here and see what you think of him: Link. 
> 
> The same performer has also done the other five Metamorphoses which vary widely in style. Although Miles strikes me as being very traditionalist when it comes to music, the Metamorphoses do use quite a wide range of the oboe’s abilities and I think he would have enjoyed the challenge they probably presented to master (as they are Grade 8 level). Not to mention that they are based around Roman mythology which he probably would have also appreciated.
> 
> Why am I prattling on about this, do you ask? Well, in keeping with the strange coincidences that keep happening while I write this fic – I was researching Britten and he turned out to be gay as well! Why do I keep picking gay composers to write about? O_O Anyway...

Phoenix stared at him in dumbstruck silence.

“You’re kid-“ he stopped. “No, you’re not, are you? …God, I can’t believe you.”

“That’s why I have to pull some late nights – do you understand, now? If I don’t, Lana will realise I haven’t fully mastered some of the techniques I should already know.”

“Sheeesh,” Phoenix shook his head. “I mean, for someone fresh out of Grade Eight you’re putting up a good front – I would’ve put you down as pretty near diploma standard already-”

“That’s probably the only reason Lana hasn’t found me out yet.”

“But still, you’re crazy, you know that, right? Absolutely stark-raving mad – you must have picked the easier pieces in the diploma lists, there’s no way you would have enough stamina otherwise.”

“They’re the intermediate ones, thankyou very much,” Miles said indignantly. “I’m not that incapable.”

“You’re still crazy, taking your diploma so soon. God, I’d be tearing my hair out with the stress – the Grade 8 nearly did me in as it was, I probably would’ve keeled over doing the diploma that soon after.”

“Well, how else do you propose that I acquire the skills I need – meditate under a waterfall until I receive enlightenment?”

“Ah, you’d be surprised how well that works!” Phoenix said, wagging a finger at him. “Maya says there’s nothing like sitting under a good, freezing cold waterfall to jazz up your playing skills.”

“Sarcasm is completely lost on you, isn’t it?”

“Well, okay, I'll concede that in this kind of situation there isn’t really any other way… but I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Phoenix said, folding his arms.

“You can say that all you like, but I don’t exactly see you offering any alternatives!”

“That’s because there aren’t any!” Phoenix protested. “Hardly any wind players take up flute as a second instrument – it wrecks your embrouchre, and-“

“Well, there we go, then.”

“But you don’t _have_ to do this, Miles – that’s all I’m trying to say. You’re really sticking your neck out here, and all this, just so we can play _Appalachian Spring_ \- which we’re not even particularly good at anyway?”

“Well… it’s important, isn’t it? To everybody.”

“But…” Phoenix began to object, then realised that there was nothing he really could say to that. He fell silent, making do with a helpless shrug.

“I can _do_ this, Phoenix,” Miles said deliberately. “I promised I would, and I’m not going to let everyone down. I admit, I underestimated how difficult the part was going to be, but I will manage.”

“Somehow?”

That was the word Miles had been trying not to say.

“Yes,” he replied, after a pause. “I don’t care how much practice I have to do to catch up.”

Phoenix just gave him a despairing look, realising that dissuasion was out of the question in the face of such single-mindedness.

“Well, why not tell Lana you’re having difficulties?” he suggested. “Couldn’t she give you the same simplified part she gave Dahlia?”

Miles laughed at that.

“What I’m playing _is_ Dahlia’s part,” he said. “I’m worse than her right now – I would’ve thought that was pretty damn obvious. And Iris has figured out it’s not because I haven’t had time to practice it!”

“Oh,” Phoenix said, at a loss. “Bloody hell. I wonder what the original part looked like?”

“You see why I’ve kept quiet about it? At the moment I’ve got the closeness of the diploma exam covering for my lack of skill, but if Lana realises the part is beyond me that’ll be the end of it, and all the work I’ve put in will be for nothing.”

“Okay, so we can’t tell her,” Phoenix rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So let me get this straight – you don’t want Iris’ help because you’re worried she’ll dob you in?”

“Well, she may feel honour-bound to tell Lana, after what happened with Dahlia.”

“I dunno, I reckon things are a bit different this time. Besides, if that were true wouldn’t she have told Lana already if she’s figured you out? If she’s offering to help instead then that must mean she’s okay with it.”

“True… but Iris has already suffered the consequences of hiding Dahlia’s lower abilities. If Lana does find me out I don’t want her getting the blame.”

“That’s nice of you and all, but you’re kinda shooting yourself in the foot. Lana’s probably more likely to find you out if you don’t get someone to help you with it. What about your diploma teacher then?”

Miles shuddered.

“No. God, no. That is _not_ an option.”

“Huh? How come?”

“If I asked, even _broached_ the subject, I would receive an hour-long tirade about how it’s bad enough that I’m taking the diploma so soon after my Grade Eight without trying pieces of that complexity at the same time and the only reason she’s putting me in for the exam at all is because I’m paying double for the lessons and by rights she shouldn’t be accepting that kind of bribery but because it is me she’ll make an exception just this once,” Miles took a breath.

“Jesus, who the hell is your teacher?!” Phoenix spluttered.

“Wendy Oldbag,” Miles winced at the name. “I’d wear earplugs every lesson if I could still hear myself play.”

“I’ve heard of her! She was on Last Night of the Proms and played two flute concertos in a row without taking a break.”

“Now you know why she has the stamina to pull that off – her secret weapon is having the lung capacity of a whale.”

“Okay, so that’s _definitely_ out. Well, that only leaves Iris, then, doesn’t it? I don’t think she’d be so determined to help you if she was worried about getting into trouble, and if it’s the technical side of things that’s the problem she’s definitely the best one to help you – did you know she came top of her intake for that component of the diploma exam?”

“Oh. I... wasn’t aware,” Miles confessed.

Even though Iris was now sitting next to him, he still hadn’t really spoken to her much – nothing more than small talk, anyway. It would have taken her a lot of courage to come up and speak to him in the first place when they barely knew each other. Remembering the scared expression on her face after he’d snapped at her made guilt gnaw at his stomach. He had to do something to try and make amends, and taking up her offer of help was, he had to admit, probably the best way of doing that. In a blunt fashion Phoenix had made him realise that he was running out of options, and the thought of Lana finding out how little experience he had was a worry that had become more real after the evening’s rehearsal.

“So are you going to phone her, then?”

“Er,” Miles stalled.

“If she already knows, there’s nothing to lose, is there?”

“No.”

“So…?” Phoenix gestured at him.

“Alright, alright,” Miles felt in his pocket for his phone, digging it out and and retrieving Iris’ number from the address book. He paused, a little apprehensive, looking at the glowing numbers on the display. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing at the best of times, never mind on the phone.

“Crap, _my bus_!”

Miles looked up – Phoenix was gone, sprinting across the carpark, and his shout made Miles aware of the dull throbbing of a bus’ engine in the distance. Phoenix was through the gates of the carpark and around the corner, but a few seconds after he had disappeared the bus went past the gate, chugging away down the main road into the city centre.

Miles looked back down at his phone display. It was 11.00pm, and Iris’ number was still showing up on the display. His thumb hovered over the call button, awkwardness settling in his stomach. Hover, hover.

_For goodness sake, get on with it!_

He pressed the call button.

Phoenix trudged back into the church carpark and walked up to stand next to Miles, waiting there silently while Miles finished the call.

“Alright?” he asked.

Miles didn’t reply for a few moments, or turn to face him, because he knew his face was still a little red from the awkwardness of the conversation he’d just had.

“Fine,” he said.

Iris had actually been okay about it. He was the one who felt thoroughly embarrassed, for in his attempts to apologise and explain to her why he had snapped like that, he realised that she was, as Phoenix had said in the beginning, a very nice person. She had understood straight away, and from his description of the problems he was having she was able to name the specific techniques he needed to perfect.

“Are you going to-“

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

He felt he didn’t really deserve her help, but she had still offered – and he had accepted, feeling guilty that he hadn’t even made the effort to get to know her beforehand. He was using her, but she didn’t appear to mind. She had said the same thing in response: “Well, it’s important, isn’t it?”

“Oh right,” Phoenix said uncertainly, a little wrong-footed by his abruptness.

Silence, for a moment. Crunching of gravel as Phoenix shifted to his other foot.

“Did you-“

“Could I-“

They both stopped.

“That was a stupid question on my part,” Miles mumbled. “Of course you missed your bus – you wouldn’t still be here otherwise. Do you want a lift?” he asked, a little more clearly. “That was the last bus, if I remember rightly.”

“Uh. If you don’t mind?”

“Why should I? It’s my fault you’re not tucking into dinner down at the diner right now. The others will be wondering where you are.”

“Nah, I called Maya when I was at the bus stop just now – they know I’m going straight home.”

“Right.”

Another silence. Miles turned and opened the car door.

“Are you staying up?” Phoenix asked. “After, uh, after you get home, I mean.”

Miles paused, hand resting on the door frame.

“Are you asking, in a roundabout fashion, whether I plan to sleep?” he replied. “In which case the answer is yes. I’ve been foolish enough today – no sense in pushing the boat out, correct? And…” he stifled a yawn, “I’m rather tired.”

_Exhausted, even._

“You sure look it!” Phoenix said, moving to the passenger side and opening the door. “Like death warmed up, actually.”

“Thankyou for your honesty. It was very much unappreciated,” Miles said drily, getting into the driver’s seat and shutting the door.

“Hey, your oboe’s taking up the passenger seat. Can I move it?”

“No. Sit it on your lap – it’s colder in the back.”

“Nice to see passengers get priority!”

“You can walk if you want.”

“Naaah, I’m good, thanks,” Phoenix got in and balanced the oboe case on his lap.

Miles switched the engine on and reversed out of the carpark. The CD player started up automatically, in the middle of the track he’d been listening to on his way to the rehearsal. Halfway down the road Phoenix said,

“That’s Britten you’ve got playing, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I thought you weren’t good at identifying composers?”

“I know a Britten when I hear it. They’re always bloody awful!”

“Ah, Britten,” Miles sighed. “A wonderful composer, sadly unappreciated by the average-“

“-person with musical taste,” Phoenix interjected. “Owning any Britten recordings is like having a Spice Girls album, you know. Your image is in tatters!”

“Spice Girls?”

“Uhh, never mind. I guess it really is just something Mia’s heard of. But yeah, I had you down as someone with a good ear for music with all the baroque sheet music you’ve got kicking around your flat – you’ve let me down, I tell you!”

“There’s nothing wrong with Britten. His _Metamorphoses_ are excellent.”

“Ah well, I guess there’s no helping some people,” Phoenix gave up. “You got any other CDs?”

“In the glove box.”

Phoenix opened it up and began sorting through them.

“I never had you down as a jazz fan – not that I mind a bit of Artie Shaw,” he said, opening up the CD case and swapping it for the Britten one.

“Ah. Well, I’m not, particularly. That was my father’s.”

“I didn’t think there was anyone around who still even recognised the name, never mind heard his stuff – he’s got some good songs.”

“…Yes. They grew on me, after a while.”

“So… your Dad was into jazz?” Phoenix asked casually over _Begin the Beguine_.

“A few jazz artists, yes. Artie Shaw and Duke Ellington mainly.”

“Two great geniuses,” Phoenix said reverently.

“I take that to mean you’re a jazz enthusiast yourself?”

“Not anything like as bad as Larry – most of my stuff’s copied from his collection. But I’m pretty fond of it, yeah – you can’t be a trumpet player and not have heard of Louis Armstrong.”

Miles made a scoffing noise.

“Are you knocking the greatest jazz legend there ever was?!” Phoenix said huffily.

“He was only legendary at burbling – on the trumpet and with the vocals.”

“You like Britten, your opinion doesn’t count!”

“Britten wrote _good_ trumpet music.”

“I wouldn’t touch Britten with a bargepole, and I’m a _good_ trumpet player!”

Miles smirked. Here was a wind-up opportunity if ever he saw one.

“Hmm. Debatable,” he said nonchalantly.

“Excuse me?!”

They bickered all the way to Phoenix’s flat.

***

**One week later**

Miles pulled into the church carpark and stayed in the car for a few minutes, the heater running to ward off the cold bite of the November evening. His eyes fell closed a few times and he had to jerk himself awake. He rubbed at his eyes, checked his watch again. He was later than usual – it had been a mistake to have a quick lie down earlier, he had dozed off for nearly two hours. He opened the car door a crack, the chilly breeze snaking in to wake him up a bit more. He tucked his flute case under his arm and grabbed both oboe cases, then booted the door open, hugging the case containing his rosewood oboe to his chest and fumbling with the zipper of his overcoat to zip it inside and keep it warm as he got out of the car. He leaned against the door to shut it and hurried through the cold wind to the church porch, then realised he’d forgotten something important. He ran back to the car, opening the passenger side to grab his flute diploma certificate. The ink was dry now.

Maya was the first one to spot it in his hand as he came up the aisle.

“He did it!” she yelled, clapping wildly.

“Well done!” Iris called out, clapping also.

Miles looked up as the others joined in. He stopped, bewildered by this round of applause. Even Lana was clapping, a rare smile on her face. Oh yes. That was why. He’d experienced a weary sort of triumph at the exam centre that afternoon, but coming in to such an accolade from the orchestra reminded him that he had achieved something that was actually very difficult. Upon realising this he felt a flush of pride, looking down at the diploma certificate in his hand. Yes, he had passed!

“Congratulations,” Lana said to him. “The concert will be in the New Year – will that be enough time for you to feel confident with the flute part?”

“I… think so?” he replied.

Behind Lana, Iris gave him a nod and a smile. He would be ready – she would make sure of it.

“In fact, yes, definitely,” he added, and Phoenix gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“Good,” Lana said airily, “because I booked the concert hall two weeks back – it’d be a bit of a pain trying to change it now.”

“T…two weeks ago?!” Miles spluttered. “But what if I hadn’t passed?”

“What if you hadn’t passed? Oh yes, and what if the sky fell on your head?” Lana raised her voice so the others could hear it.

“We still keep playing, no matter what!” the rest of the orchestra chanted back.

“There’s your answer,” Lana said. “Worrying about the ‘what if’s is mine and Mr. Gant’s job – you’re here to play music! Besides, I had every faith in you. Now have a seat, we were waiting for you.”

***

**Two weeks later**

“Nick! You need to come with me and Ema to get sandwiches!” Maya announced.

“Huh? But I’ve got my lunch here,” Phoenix held up his lunchbox, which was immediately whipped from his hands.

“Mmf, whassat ‘bout ‘av’n runch?” Maya said around the entire sandwich half she had somehow managed to cram into her mouth. Ema was eating the other half with equal fervour.

Phoenix looked at the empty lunchbox Maya handed back to him, lower lip starting to tremble.

“My... my peanut butter and jelly sandwich!” he wailed, his protests fading into the distance as Maya and Ema dragged him out of the rehearsal hall.

The other members of the orchestra exchanged mystified glances, and Lana smacked her palm against her forehead, despairing. Nobody went after him. Miles just carried on eating his apple – he no longer batted an eyelid at such breaktime happenings. Not after the get-the-tennis-ball-in-the-bucket game with Gumshoe’s new tuba, which had arrived from Canada last week. They’d have a hard time of beating his high score with that.

“My sandwich,” Phoenix was still in mourning.

“Oh shush, we’ll buy you one at the shop,” Maya said, waving it off. “Now we’ve got you away from prying eyes, you’ve got some questions to answer!”

“I do?”

“Yup!” Ema agreed. “We’ve been watching you. Something’s up, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Maya stepped in front of him, hands on hips, a knowing expression on her face.

“You can’t hide it from us!”

“We’ve studied you well,” Ema stood next to her, notebook at the ready – it was already full of pages of notes. “And we have empirical evidence to prove our conclusions.”

“So tell us, Nick-“

“How do you feel about him?”

Phoenix looked at them both, and they watched him in return, expectant, eager.

“...About who?” he asked.

“GAH!” they both smacked him. “You’re so DENSE!”

“We mean Miles Edgeworth, you big lunkhead!” Maya said crossly.

“Oh. Him.”

Maya and Ema exchanged glances, faces grave. This was going to be harder than they thought.

“Are you in denial, Mr. Wright?” Ema asked, pulling her glasses down her nose and giving him a piercing stare. “It’s a common psychological state, scientifically speaking.”

“In denial about what?”

“Haven’t you even _noticed_ what you’ve been doing, Nick?” Maya sighed. “’Cause we sure have, and we’re on the opposite side of the room! You always look super happy when you’re talking to him, and then when he goes back to whatever he’s doing you stare into space for a minute before you start practicing again. And you’re coming late to dinner at the cafe because you’ve stayed back to talk to him for a bit before he goes home. All the signs mount up, you know!”

“Even Lana’s commented that you two have become good friends,” Ema added.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Phoenix said, looking at the two of them.

“Nope,” they said in unison.

“Hey, if you tell someone it helps!” Ema said brightly.

“A problem shared is a problem doubled an’ all,” Maya paused, scratching her cheek, “... wait, that wasn’t right. You know what I mean!”

“Do you really need me to confirm it if you’ve figured all this stuff out for yourself anyway?” Phoenix folded his arms, turning away. “Besides, I’ve already decided not to do anything about it,” he said loftily.

“What?!” Ema burst out. "You're giving up?"

"My mind is made up."

“But, but, it’s unrequited love! You can’t just let it die like that!” Maya protested. “How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” Phoenix replied, head drooping and shoulders sagging a little.

Maya walked around to stand next to him, patting him on the arm sympathetically.

“Nick, you shouldn’t be so down on yourself. How do you know he doesn’t? It’s not like he’d give any outward signs of it.”

“Maya’s right, all is not lost!” Ema exclaimed. “There’s no proof either way, so why not tell him how you feel?”

“And besides, I think Maya’s Law applies here,” Maya said stoutly.

“Uhhh, since when did you have any sort of law that applied anywhere?” Phoenix asked, confused.

“Well, it’s quite simple,” Maya explained. “I think he’s handsome,” she said dreamily, “and because I like him he’ll turn out to be gay. See?”

Phoenix dropped his arms, staring at her, a small trickle of sweat appearing at his temple.

“...Did I scar you that much, coming out to you last year when you tried to ask me out?”

“Yes,” she replied instantly. “That’s why you’d better make it up to me by not giving up on Miles! At least if you actually _get_ with a guy I can finally explain to Pearly that things didn’t work out – and she likes him too, so maybe she’ll be okay with it.”

“In other words, I have to get approval from an eight year old girl before I can go out with anybody? Fantastic."

“Well, it’s better than Pearly being angry, right?”

Phoenix winced.

“Yes.” He had received a Pearl-slap before, when he’d taken Taiho out of his trumpet case to fit in some extra cleaning cloths. They hurt. “But isn’t it your fault she knows you were going to ask me out in the first place?”

“Uh, yeah,” Maya admitted. “But that’s why I’m trying to help you out with this!”

“So that’s your ulterior motive, huh? If your matchmaking attempts are anything like as subtle as hers I think I’ll pass!”

“Hey, you’ve been suffering for this long,” Ema piped up. “That means deep down you don’t want to give up – and it’s hard sitting back and not saying anything. He’s on your mind a lot, we can tell. So you should let it all out! Good therapy, that – scientifically proven.”

“I don’t think I could get him out of my head if I tried,” Phoenix spread his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “But what can I really do about it? If I tried to tell him I think he’d just try and avoid me. The situation’s too awkward.”

“Ah, you see! Now you’re thinking positive!” Maya beamed.

“Just how is that positive?” Phoenix said weakly.

“Because we came up with a plan for just such a situation!” Ema began sketching a complicated diagram in her notepad. “You see, we thought he’d probably do that, and the best time and the place if you wanted to confess to him would be...”

As the pair explained it to him, Phoenix listened with a growing sense of bewilderment. The plan was crazy, completely insane, and they shouldn’t even be interfering to begin with. Yet it made disturbingly scientific sense – a combination of Maya and Ema’s mentalities. He thought back to what they had said earlier. They were right, of course. Miles wouldn’t give any outward indication of emotional attachment. Yet there were little things he saw that Maya would have missed from her position on the other side of the room. The low laugh, barely audible, the raised eyebrow and wry smile at something particularly stupid that he’d said, and most important of all, the fact that Miles would actually pause his own practice midphrase when Phoenix tapped him on the shoulder with something to say. Miles probably wasn’t even aware of it himself, but he didn’t treat Phoenix with the same level of detachment as he did the others.

They were friends, at least, and it was that which had made him decide not to push it any further, for fear of losing that fragile connection. But Maya’s words had made him think again about the little things that Miles did. Did they mean something more? It wasn’t good to read too much into it, he knew, and yet a part of him still hoped – and that was why he didn’t dismiss their conniving scheme straight off, though he knew he really should have. It was a terrible plan, in fact, the lengths it involved him going to... and how Miles would certainly react. Yet he’d been keeping quiet about his feelings for some time already, before Maya and Ema had pounced on him. He’d have to give it up and come out with them at some point – he was already going a little mad trying to preserve the act of normal behaviour around the oboe-player, what with his stomach fluttering and heart racing more and more with each casual conversation during rehearsals. But despite this, he thought he could just about hold up a little longer, try and come up with a better plan than the lunacy the two girls in front of him were trying to get him to agree to.

“Buy me another sandwich, and I might think about it.”

They bought him a double-decker Peanut Butter Jelly Special and he still said no.

It was two weeks (he eventually gave up bringing in a lunchbox) before he finally agreed to it. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything better. Every situation he could think of gave Miles the opportunity to withdraw and avoid giving a reply, and that was the thing he feared the most.

“I don’t even mind if he says no,” he told Ema and Maya on yet another walk to the shops. “I just want to be able to tell him and get it out of my system, and be able to talk to him afterwards and sort it all out in one go. Maybe that’s all I need and then everything can go back to how it was?”

“Then it’s decided!” Maya rubbed her hands together with glee. “Operation Oboe-Player is game on!”

“I will totally regret this,” Phoenix worried.

“Nah, everything’s gonna work out just fine!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of…”


	10. Prelude

“Happy New Year, orchestra,” Lana said to them all as she entered the hall. “Have you all had a good holiday?”

“Yes, Lana,” they all replied.

“And I got a new music stand for Christmas!” Pearl piped up, pointing to the bright red stand that stood in front of her.

“So you have. Are you taking that on tour?”

Pearl nodded hopefully.

“Well, given that I’ve allowed Wright to get away with his blue monstrosity, I can hardly say no to a red music stand, can I?” Lana replied, stacking her pile of sheet music on the conductor’s dais.

Phoenix grinned and tipped Pearl a wink, his blue trumpet resting on his knees.

“I should invest in one of those metallic-coloured conductor’s batons. Then I’d clash right in with the rest of you, hm? But that’s neither here nor there - before we tune up and get started, I have a very important announcement to make.”

“We’re gonna start doing some Scott Joplin?” Larry asked with a grin.

The pencil Lana kept on her conductor’s stand for just such occasions hit him squarely between the eyes, eraser end first, and ricocheted off to land with a clatter next to Ema, who picked it up and handed it back to her older sister with a grin.

“Such a cold reception,” Larry whimpered, rubbing where he’d been hit.

“You’re in a classical orchestra, Butz – not a music hall band. We have _standards_ ,” Lana spelt it out, “and honky-tonk ragtime frivolity is beneath us. Understood?”

“And Sibelius isn’t?” Larry retorted. 

“Hmph. Mr. Gant’s choice, not mine,” Lana muttered darkly. They’d performed the composer’s Symphony No. 4 on a previous tour – none of orchestra particularly enjoyed it, and even Lana had admitted at the time that she had little enthusiasm for Sibelius. 

“So Joplin’s better than Sibelius, right?” Larry pointed out, tongue between his teeth in a cheeky fashion.

“Regardless!” Lana raised her voice, deliberately ignoring Larry’s question. “This is something that affects the lot of you, so you’d better listen up!”

“We better not be a-staying in that ol’ YMCA in London again,” Jake said, tugging his hat down over his eyes. “Else I’ll be taking my sharp-shooter for those ‘roaches.”

Maya gave a convulsive shudder in response to that.

“You might not have to complain about any of that again,” Lana said pointedly.

That got their attention.

“We’re on the edge of securing permanent patronage for the orchestra,” she explained.

“All thanks to me,” Franziska interjected, a smug smile on her face.

Lana gave her a frosty stare but Franziska continued to smirk – after all, it was the truth.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “Mr. Von Karma has expressed an interest in becoming our patron… due to Franziska’s involvement in the orchestra,” she seemed reluctant to add this.

“Does that mean we’re stuck with her?” Phoenix murmured, almost inaudible.

Miles saw the pencil appear in Lana’s hand and ducked as it whistled over his head.

“Ow!”

“Enough backchat, Wright.”

There was no retort from Franziska – she didn’t appear to have heard.

“So, I’m sure you’re aware of what this means, orchestra,” Lana said, a little more brightly. “More funding! Which means better accommodation, nicer venues, and perhaps even, dare I say it, a higher salary.”

This was met with an appreciative “Oooh”.

“However! Mr. Von Karma has requested a dinner meeting with myself and Mr. Gant to secure this and finalise the details… on February the twenty-fifth. In the evening.”

“But… that’s the day of the concert!” Maggey protested.

“It is.”

“So the date’s changing?” Miles asked.

“No. The hall is booked – the date can’t be moved.”

“Then how-“ Phoenix began, but Lana held up a hand.

“Let me finish. Ordinarily, this would be unthinkable – but Mr. Gant has organised something else which makes all of this possible. It’s a truly wonderful opportunity, orchestra.”

The orchestra exchanged glances. They’d never heard the word “wonderful” pass from Lana’s lips in all the years that she’d been leading their performances. She was lean with praise, but when it came, it meant a lot.

“Alexei Georgiy,” Lana said the name slowly, reverently, “is going to be conducting the opening half of the Los Angeles concert.”

As this sank in, Angel asked,

“Alexei Georgiy? THE Alexei Georgiy?”

Lana nodded. Miles was looking at her, and if his eyes weren’t fooling him he could see a wistful fraction of a smile on her face. Every musician had someone who they aspired to be like, and now he realised that conductors weren’t any different.

“Who’s he?” Larry asked, holding his clarinet up in front of his face to shield him from any incoming projectiles.

Lana made do with a despairing sigh, shaking her head.

“Have you been hiding under a rock for the last ten years, Butz?” she said.

“Hey, even I know who the guy is!” Gumshoe said proudly. “Hell, he’s conducted all over the world – he’s huge!”

“Yup, built like a tank,” Will agreed. 

“I… think he meant huge, like famous?” Mike said tentatively.

“Oh, that too,” Will waved it off. “But he is seriously a big guy – I’ve heard he got muscles like that because he puts so much energy into conducting!”

“He’s a fine specimen,” Angel said thoughtfully. “I could do with a new boyfriend. When’s he coming? Ow!” she rubbed the side of her head. “What was… did you-?” she turned to Lana.

Lana held up her pencil, shaking her head.

“Probably something from the ceiling,” she said casually, writing something on the corner of her conductor’s score with the pencil.

Miles wondered how many more she had hidden in the top pocket of her suit.

“In answer to your question, he will be taking your final rehearsal on the day of the concert. He is flying out from Moscow specially.”

“I’m going to get his autograph,” Pearl said excitedly. “He can write on my sheet music!”

“Now, Pearly,” Maya admonished her, “you must be respectful to your elders… me first!”

“Hey, Lana,” Diego raised a hand. “You just said, Alexei Georgiy will be conducting the _opening_ half of the concert. Does that mean you’ll be conducting for the second half?”

“Yes. That is the arrangement – Mr. Georgiy is aware of what happened at our last concert. At my request, which he was happy to oblige, I will be taking you through _Appalachian Spring_. And both Mr. Von Karma and Mr. Gant plan to be in attendance for this. You know what that means, orchestra? I want a flawless performance.”

“You’ll get one,” Jake grunted.

“Hear hear,” Miles murmured.

“As if we would give anything less!” Franziska scoffed.

The others nodded their agreement. Phoenix shifted nervously in his seat, but he nodded all the same.

***

“I can’t do this,” Phoenix said to Ema and Maya, enroute to the sandwich shop. “He will kill me. He’ll actually kill me. And if Lana finds out, she’ll be killing my ghost. Which will be living in a cardboard box somewhere, busking on a ghost trumpet, because I’ll have been chucked out of the orchestra.”

“Then how else are you gonna do it?” Ema pointed out. “We’ve been through this before, haven’t we? Anywhere else, he can just step away from you and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“If that’s the case then I should take the hint and accept it was never meant to be.”

“Not true!” Maya overruled him. “It’s just easier for him to do that than face up to it. This way, he _has_ to.”

“But it’s Alexei Georgiy who's conducting! _The_ Alexei Georgiy!”

“You knew that from the start, so why are you getting cold feet now?” Ema asked.

“It’s just… there’s so much at stake, and it might not-”

“Ah, the seeds of doubt!” Maya declared. “It’s the fear of the unknown that’s getting you, Nick.”

“No, it’s the fear of this whole thing going horribly wrong! At least if I ask him in a less extreme way there’s a small, fractional chance of him actually continuing to speak to me afterwards.”

“I wouldn’t be taking bets on that,” Maya replied. “That’d be like, putting a hundred bucks on the three-legged horse in the sweepstakes.”

“And if you think of it in terms of the gains instead of the losses,” Ema scribbled a few calculations in her notebook. “The chances of Mr. Edgeworth listening to you and perhaps even saying yes are a bit healthier with the current plan.”

Maya nodded.

“Maya’s Betting Agency would offer you better odds on that. That’d be like backing a four-legged horse… with a gammy leg.”

“Since when could the success of my love life be measured in terms of crippled horses?”

“Well, if you abandon the idea altogether, you wouldn’t be racing at all! You’d still be in the back paddock.”

“At the moment that’s looking like a safer option.”

“Safe? Pfft!” Ema snorted. “Faint heart never won fair… gentleman!”

“It’s up to you, Nick,” Maya shrugged. “But if you wanna go for it, we’ve got you covered!”

Ema perched her glasses on top of her head, smiling at him.

“And if you’re gonna go for it, go with all your heart! As long as you believe in yourself, Mr. Wright, the plan is bombproof – and that’s scientifically speaking!”

Phoenix scratched his head, looking a little lost.

“Something tells me I should just say no,” he said slowly. “But you guys are right. If I stay sitting on the fence nothing will happen, and I know exactly how it’ll go down if I just told him in the interval or something. Nothing will be the same again anyway…”

“So if you’re gonna throw it all away, you may as well do it big time,” Maya threw her hands up in the air. “BOOM or bust!”

“You didn’t have to put it like that.”

“So we’re still on?” Ema asked.

Phoenix nodded, though he still looked a little worried.

“It’ll be alright on the night, eh, Nick?” Maya said cheerily.

Phoenix was trying not to think about it now.

“I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A quadruple-decker one.” 

At least there was comfort food.  
***  
This was the first time Miles had seen any of the orchestra in their concert outfits. Of course, all the men were outfitted in tailored tuxedos with black bow ties. Diego looked very suave, but as he always dressed smartly anyway this was no surprise. Mike Meekins looked even ganglier in a tuxedo than he did in casual clothes, the black cloth hugging his stick-thin frame, while Will Powers looked as if about to burst out of his, the shirt pulled tight across his enormous barrel chest. 

"Darn it, if I haven't gone and spilt valve oil on my sleeve. That's not gonna come out," Jake grumbled, putting down his trombone to rub at the stain. He still had his poncho on over his tuxedo, though he had swapped his brown cowboy hat for a black one with a silver band. Oddly, he still looked smart in it. By contrast, Dick Gumshoe still managed to look a little dishevelled in his formal wear – his bow tie was crooked and his top shirt button was undone, a stray thread hanging from the collar which was just begging to be pulled off. The whole brass section were there, apart from Phoenix. Miles had run him up to the concert hall and he had immediately disappeared into the toilets to get changed.

Miles looked back at Dick, his eyes immediately drawn to the stray thread. It was no good, he had to say something.

“Dick? You’ve got a frayed thread there,” Miles pointed.

“Huh? Oh – thanks, pal,” Dick pulled at it, but it didn’t snap, it just became longer, and as he pulled it some more it became longer still, and Miles could see the tuba-player was actually beginning to unravel the collar seam.

“Stop, you’re pulling it apart!” he warned Dick, but it was too late.

“Aw, now look what I’ve done,” Dick groaned as the thread snapped, to leave his collar half hanging off. 

_I should’ve known better,_ Miles groaned inwardly. _Like his tuba, some things are better left well alone._

“Lana will roast me alive if she finds out!” Dick fretted. “Anyone got a needle and thread?”

“Ooh, I’ve got one!” Maggey said, rushing over to where her viola case was propped up in the corner. “I always shed a bunch of sequins in this outfit so I brought some just in case.” She was wearing a long black evening dress with an oblique hem that hung lower on one side, almost to the floor. It was bedecked with sequins from the waist down and they caught the light, producing tiny flashes under the dim lights in the backstage waiting area. “Here we go!” she tottered back again in her matching heels, but one of them stepped on the trailing edge of her dress hem and there was a loud ripping sound. “Oh no!” she cried, looking down at the rip she’d made. “I might need it first…”

“Not again, Maggey,” Maya sighed. “I’ve sewed that dress up so many times!”

She felt a tap on her arm and looked down at Pearl, who was holding up a hair clip while at the same time trying to hold her fringe back out of her face with her other hand.

“You should leave it down, Pearly,” Maya said to her, “it looks nice like that.”

“But it gets in my face when I’m trying to play,” Pearl protested. “Could you put it in for me? It keeps falling out when I try.”

“Wow, Pearls, I barely recognised you!” Phoenix exclaimed as he came up to them, now dressed in his tuxedo. 

Miles turned to look at the Fey cousins. He blinked, looking at Pearl – her hair had been painstakingly curled into soft ringlets and Phoenix was right, she was completely transformed. 

“Is this a Maya Makeover?” Phoenix asked with a smile.

Pearl nodded shyly. She even had a little bit of makeup on – just some eyeshadow and a bit of fine glitter at the corners of her eyes, but the silver glints matched with the large silver buckle on the front of her little black dress.

“Doesn’t she look great?” Maya said with pride. “We wanted to look our best for the big Comeback Concert!” She had a matching dress, but hers was strapless, accentuating the Kurain String School emblem that hung around her neck. She had also curled her hair, which was up in a half-ponytail with a filigree silver hairclip holding it all in at the back.

“You sure did a good job, both of you,” Phoenix replied. “And those are new dresses, am I right?”

“They sure are!” Maya did a twirl, making the hem swish around her. “Our old ones were a little worn, so Lana said we could have some money from the kitty for new outfits.”

“And we’re still stuck with our ratty old tuxes – bah! Next time, it’ll be our turn, just you wait. Shall I go get us some drinks?” he suggested.

“Yeah, ta - I’m parched!” Maya replied, and Phoenix disappeared off to the bar.

“I’m amazed by everybody’s concert attire. You both look stunning,” Miles said, and he meant it.

“Aw shucks, well, we like to try, don’t we, Pearly?” Maya said, her attempt at modesty betrayed by the big grin on her face. Pearl just went bright red and hid behind her.

Miles felt a prickle on the back of his neck and he turned to receive the full brunt of a fiery stare from Angel Starr, who was dressed in a figure-clinging, filmy black dress with silver studs dotting it in swirls that seemed to trace the curves of her figure.

“Oh! Er, yes, indeed, verily…” he floundered.

“My outfit leaves you lost for words, Miles?” Angel asked, tilting the corner of her mouth up in a satisfied smile.

“A-absolutely!” Miles nodded.

Angel reached out and traced a slender finger from Miles' throat up to his chin, leaning in close.

“Glad to hear it,” she breathed, then turned and walked away with a swish of chiffon fabric.

There was a moment of silence, then Maya and Pearl burst into fits of laughter at the residual terrified expression on Miles’ face. 

“You had a lucky escape, there!” Maya patted him on the shoulder. 

“She eats people like you for breakfast, Mister Edgeworth,” Pearl added solemnly.

“Uh, yes, perhaps I have, then,” Miles wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, trying to recover his composure. Socialising was a complicated matter when females were involved. 

“Mayaaaa,” Maggey said plaintively, “if I hold this rip closed will you stitch it for me?”

“I should charge for Maya’s Mending Services – on the spot when you’re in a spot!” Maya took Maggey to one side, needle and thread at the ready with Pearl as an eager assistant.

Phoenix came back with a tray of drinks. There was a glass of Fanta for Pearl in amongst the wine glasses.

“Wine?” he asked, proffering the tray. “You look like you could do with a drink.”

Miles nodded and took a glass. It was certainly in order after his femme fatale encounter, he felt. He sniffed the wine - it smelled acceptable, so he sipped. A dry white, of a good vintage.

“You wouldn’t think we’d been practicing for nearly six months,” he commented, nodding his head towards the others who were all running about fixing this, that or the other.

“I’ve lost the mouthpiece of my trumpet!” Mike waved at them frantically. “Have you seen it anywhere? It was right there on the chair!”

“Checked your trumpet case?” Phoenix asked.

“Yes!”

“Pockets?”

“Yes!”

“Trumpet?”

“Uh…” Mike looked down at the trumpet in his hands. “No! There it is – oh, thankyou, Mr. Wright! I’m always doing things like that…” he wandered off.

“It’s always like this before the first concert,” Phoenix said. “It’s a bit better once we’re on tour, everything’s in the one place then. Though once upon a time, Maggey left her viola in Norway – and only realised when we went to get the instruments out of the trailer in Copenhagen for the next concert!”

Miles shook his head. Stories like this about Maggey no longer shocked him.

“What happened at the concert, then?” he asked.

“Well, Pearl just played her part an octave lower on the cello – we’re, uh, used to filling in for people that are missing, or can’t play, and all the rest,” Phoenix replied. “I mean, take Mike, for instance. When he plays during concerts, he’s better than I am. He’s first trumpet really – I just cover his parts when he can’t play them.”

“You’re second trumpet…?” Miles blinked. “But, I thought-“

“Me? First trumpet? No chance!” Phoenix laughed. “First trumpet is pretty hard work for me – I’ve got the stamina but I’m not so great at the fancy stuff. I have to practice a lot to nail the opening passages of the pieces; that’s usually when Mike can’t play. Once we’re a few staves in he gets over the stage fright and starts playing, and then I switch to the second trumpet part – with a sigh of relief, believe you me!”

As the two of them chatted, Mike was busy polishing his trumpet. He found it somewhat therapeutic, and he needed a bit of relaxation after losing the mouthpiece of his trumpet. Okay, so he hadn’t really lost it, but he _hadn’t known where it was_. His nerves tightened a little at the thought of it and he struggled to put it out of his mind. He concentrated on polishing the bell of the trumpet, breathing in and out like he’d been taught at the anxiety management course Mr. Gant had sent him on.

“Cooee!”

He jumped, losing his grip on the trumpet and fumbling frantically at it to try and save it from dropping on the floor. He caught it just in time, twisting around in his chair with a look of absolute terror on his face.

Ema Skye smiled at him, baring her teeth. That smile looked positively predatory. He shrank back in the chair a little.

“Would you like a mint?” she asked jollily. “Nothing like a bit of peppermint to sooth the pre-concert nerves!”

“I-i-I’m okay, thankyou very much please!” Mike gibbered.

Ema frowned. 

“Would you like a mint?” she asked again, more insistent.

“I… don’t really like mints,” Mike waved a hand at her weakly, trying to smile a little bit to fend her off.

“They’re not strong mints. They taste hardly minty at all. Would you like a mint?” this tone brooked no argument.

“O…okay,” his hand was seized and a single mint tapped into it from the packet. It was a big mint.

“Swallow it whole. With some water,” Ema handed him the glass of water she was holding.

“Is this a new type of mint?” Mike asked.

“You could say that,” Ema grinned as he popped it into his mouth and washed it down with some water.

“You’re right, that wasn’t very minty,” he mused. “Do you have any more?”

“Not without a prescription.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“See ya at the interval!” Ema waved and trotted off.

Mike turned back around, reaching for the polishing cloth. Polish… breathe in… polish… breathe out. Why, he was feeling better already!

***

Maya peeped out of the wings. She'd persuaded Pearl to stay with Phoenix and Miles for a little while, allowing her to slip onto the stage. The auditorium was completely empty. She felt a tap on her shoulder, turning to see Ema standing behind her.

“Done it?” she asked.

“Done and dusted!” Ema replied with satisfaction, then the two of them scuttled onto the stage and spirited away a chair and a music stand each. 

Once the chairs were shuffled across, it looked as if there had never been a space at all.

Ema checked her watch. It was quarter past six – they had forty-five minutes until they were due on stage. 

“So…” she said. “What are we going to tell Mr. Georgiy? Have you thought of anything?”

“Not yet,” Maya fiddled with her necklace. In spite of herself, she still felt a little nervous about this part of the plan. Mainly because, well, it wasn't planned at all. “I think we’ll just have to, uh, go with the flow?”

“The chances of him actually believing us are pretty low, I’ve calculated.”

“Then we’ll have to come up with something so unbelievable that there’s no way we could have made it up, right?”

“I like this plan,” Ema cackled.

At least it _was_ one.

***

“High time we got on stage, I say,” Jake declared, looking at the clock.

"Remember what Mr. Georgiy said earlier, guys - we're gonna sock it to the audience tonight!" Larry whooped, holding his clarinet high.

"Damn straight," Diego agreed, lifting his double bass.

The others began to get up, instruments in hand. This was the usual drill – they would enter stage left, sit and tune, and then Lana would enter from stage right to start the performance. Except this time, it was Alexei Georgiy who would be leading them. He had introduced himself to the orchestra earlier in the day. As Will had said, he was huge - towering with broad shoulders and arms of gorilla-like proportions, and his limited English gave him the air of a Russian mafiaman. But despite his hulking figure, he was an affable man with an easy smile - they'd liked him straight away, and his conducting was expressive and full of life. 

“Where’s Ema and Maya?” Phoenix asked, eyes scanning the room.

The door burst open and the two girls entered the room, slightly breathless and looking for where they’d left their instruments.

“Where were you guys?” Larry asked. “This ain’t no time to be disappearing!”

“Ema needed the toilet,” Maya gabbled, grabbing up her violin, bow and sheet music.

“And you had to go toge-“ Miles began, but Diego cut him off with a majestic raise of the hand.

“It’s a trait feminine – and like putting sugar into coffee, ours is not to question why, only to despair.”

“Let’s go, pals!” Dick said, hoisting up his tuba. “This is it, we’re gonna do this! Hooooboy, I’m all fired up!”

“That’s the spirit!” Will said cheerily, French horn under one arm.

Dick headed for the door that lead backstage, and the others began to follow. Phoenix hesitated for a moment, looking over at Ema and Maya. They just nodded at him, big smiles on their faces. So it was done – it was all up to him now.

“No dithering now,” Miles said, inclining his head towards the door. “We’ve got a concert to give! You coming?”


	11. Nocturne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of pr0n. Detailed pr0n. Do not read this chapter if you're under 18. Don't say I didn't warn you!
> 
> The setup for this was difficult; the pr0n itself was easy by comparison, though now I've written a couple of slashy pieces I've realised it's actually quite difficult to avoid descending into the same old descriptions. I hope the music adds an unusual flavour to it. Make sure you have the pieces playing while you're reading (the text will tell you when), it helps the flow and sets the mood!  
> Links:  
> Toccata and Fugue in D Minor  
> Pavane  
> March (Nutcracker)  
>  Russian Dance (Nutcracker)

They were waiting in the wings, about to go on stage. Diego had done a quick head count to make sure everybody was there. Only Franziska was missing; her father had requested her presence at the dinner and Lana had grudgingly released her, though only because her percussion lines in the first half were sparse. _Appalachian Spring_ , on the other hand, had heavy percussion input.

“D’you think they’ll be back in time for the second half?” Phoenix whispered. “Lana and everybody, I mean. Dinner dates always go on longer than they’re supposed to.”

“It’ll be about nine by the time the second half starts – I don’t think anyone could eat that late,” Miles replied.

“Lana won’t let us down!” Maya piped up from behind them.

She and Ema stood behind them in the line, and they listened to the announcement played over the tannoy:

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Los Angeles Concert Hall. The Los Angeles Travelling Symphony are about to perform. Please take your seats, and we hope you enjoy the performance.”

Miles wasn’t sure if he felt nervous or excited. On Broadway, the orchestra were never a focus like this – always down in the pit, out of sight to all except those who had paid for the cheap seats up in the stalls. They were meant to be invisible, a background for the singers the audience had really paid to see. But this time, those people sitting in the auditorium beyond had paid to see him perform. It gave him a thrill, that thought – a sense of pride.

_I’m here. I’m going to play. At last!_

He was a little nervous, he realised, but only about his solo in the second half. The other pieces they had played so much over the last few months that the notes flew from his fingers. Even _Appalachian Spring_ no longer bothered him, thanks to Iris’ tutelage and months of practice. The solo shouldn’t be an issue either, he knew, or rather tried to tell himself. But there was always that element of the unknown when he played _Gabriel’s Oboe_. It depended on his mood as much as the reed he was using – it never sounded the same twice, a consequence of the number of notes within a single passage of the piece. The nuance, length and dynamic of them changed every time. While he couldn’t account for his mood, he could at least make sure he had the right reed. He’d been training a reed for this piece for weeks, having scraped it and shaped it and blown it in.

_And it’ll probably give out on me in the interval._

As was always the way. A good oboe player was supposed to make even the worst reed sound acceptable, but for Miles having a decent, reliable reed was a comfort. He could play on a bad one, but it wasn’t enjoyable, and to get _Gabriel’s Oboe_ right – as Phoenix had told him a long time ago – he had to enjoy playing it. And so he had three reserve reeds in his case. Nothing was going to catch him unprepared this time.

The auditorium lights went down and his stomach tightened. This was it. Only the front half of the stage was illuminated, highlighting the empty chairs that stood in front of the conductor’s dais. There was movement in front of him as the orchestra began to file on stage, to the sound of applause from the audience. They would sit and tune their instruments, and then Alexei Georgiy would enter stage right to begin the first piece. Larry, who was in front of him, started walking forward, following the others. Miles hesitated a moment, seized by an unexpected shot of nerves. He took a slow breath to try and quell it, and was about to step forward when his hand was grabbed, pulled - he wasn’t expecting it and he stumbled sideways, barely staying upright as he tried to recover his footing.

“This way, quick!” Phoenix whispered urgently, ushering him along.

“What?” Miles responded to the command for a moment, following him, then realised they were moving away from the stage. He pulled back, trying to break free as Ema and Maya filed on, apparently oblivious to the altercation. But Phoenix was determined and continued dragging him towards the abandoned percussion instruments set up in the unlit corner of the stage.

“What are you playing at?” he hissed, still resisting as Phoenix ducked down behind the four massive timpani drums. He had no choice but to bob down too, though he was still trying to wrench his hand away – years of working trumpet valves had given Phoenix strong fingers.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Not now – we’re about to play!”

“We can’t.”

“I don’t have time for your messing about,” Miles finally managed to twist his hand out of Phoenix’s grip and was about to stand up, when the significance of the comment sunk in. He paused.

“…What do you mean, we can’t?”

“There’s no seats for us, Miles. We can’t play in the first half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – of course there-“ Miles broke off, aware of an absence of noise. No scraping of chairs, the applause had died down. He turned, looking through the gap between two timpanis. The orchestra were seated. The chairs were all full.

He stared at them for a moment, mind blank with temporary incomprehension. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

_This is a mistake._

Yes, it was a mistake.

“They’ve put the wrong number of chairs out, then,” he said, logic reasserting itself. “We must go and get some chairs and bring them onstage – Alexei Georgiy won’t start the performance without us. Why did you drag me over here to tell me…” he trailed off, looking at Phoenix.

_Wait a minute._

“How did you know… there weren’t…”

Onstage, there was some hushed discussion amongst the orchestra.

“Where the hell are those guys?”

“They were right behind us!”

“How are we gonna tune with no oboe?”

“Who’s gonna fill in for Mike?”

“I don’t need filling in for,” Mike murmured, slowly leafing to the right page in his sheet music. “I’m good. I can do this.”

Maya whispered something to Angel, who in turn passed it on.

“They’re doing what?” Will blinked.

“Well, I’ll be damned if that’s not the worst timing in the world,” Jake grunted.

“Hee, if Lana finds out they’re in deep shit,” Larry cackled.

“Just like you’ll be if you tell her – I know where you were during the Amsterdam concert, remember?” Ema said nonchalantly.

Larry paled, a single drop of sweat appearing at his temple. He wiped it away with a nervous chuckle.

“Sure is hot under these stage lights, huh, Ema, my keep-shtum buddy? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, eh?”

“So… we’re tuning the old way, then, huh?” Dick asked.

In response to that, Angel stood up and gave them the A note they needed. In actuality, the orchestra were already tuned. This tuning session was for show, to let the audience know they were about to begin, and for any last minute adjustments after getting under the hot lights of the stage.

Miles was staring at Phoenix in disbelief, a cold wave of horror washing over him as he heard the soft sounds of the orchestra tuning onstage.

“What… have you done?” he asked, a little helplessly.

There was another round of applause as Alexei Georgiy walked onstage, the stage lights going up as he entered. Miles screwed his eyes shut as the lights above them came on, blazing down. After a moment he opened his eyes, and as they adjusted to the brightness he saw Alexei scanning the orchestra, a small frown on his face.

_He must know we’re not there… surely… surely…_

With the stage fully lit, the pool of shadows between the timpanis and the safety of backstage was gone - to move now would put him in full view of the audience. The only thing he could hope for now was that the Russian maestro would realise they were missing and call off the performance until they were found.

But Miles’ hopes were dashed, for the conductor tapped his baton on the dais three times, then raised his hands and began to count them in. 1… 2… 3…

_No!_

Miles could have stood up at that moment, but he hesitated, just for a second, his stomach squirming at the thought of the embarrassment it would cause –

A lone violin sounded – Angel Starr, playing the opening bars of the _Toccata and Fugue in D minor_ , then Maya, Pearl and Diego took up the lower reaches of the opening passage with heavy strings.

Too late.

The loud, angry grinding of bow on double-bass string at the lowest register penetrated through the auditorium, buzzing in Miles’ ears.

“You bloody fool!” he rounded on Phoenix. “This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

Phoenix swallowed, and he nodded.

The oppressiveness of the melody hung, sustained by the leaden notes of the tuba and double bass. Then the other string players jumped in again one by one in rapid succession to bring the piece back up to treble, the strings segueing from the long notes into a slew of rapid but heavily bowed arpeggios, grated out on horsehair.

“What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like this?” Miles demanded. “Why? What on earth possessed you?”

“I, uh, I had-“ Miles had such a livid expression on his face that Phoenix couldn’t get the words out.

“Don’t just sit there gaping at me like a bloody fish,” Miles railed furiously. “Answer me! I’ve got half a mind to damn well punch you in the face – do you have _any idea_ what you’ve just done?!”

“I, I know what I’ve done! I know, okay? And I’m sorry-“

“You’re sorry? Like hell – you planned this!”

“I did, and I knew you’d be angry, but-“

Miles’ hand shot out, seizing Phoenix by one lapel of his black jacket, his fingers crushing creases into the black fabric as he gripped it, jerking Phoenix roughly towards him. Onstage, the orchestra hit a rolling chord, their voices colliding together in a roar of fury.

“Angry? I’m fucking _pissed!_ ”

But even as he said that he paused, glaring angrily at the trumpet-player, still gripping him by the front of his jacket. The chord abruptly cut off, the rest of the orchestra silencing their instruments to leave Angel playing a single note, that merged into a fiddly run ending on an insistent, prolonged trill.

_Oh, what’s the bloody use? I’m stuck here now and I can’t do a damn thing about it._

Another harsh chord. There was a brief pause, then Maggey slowly entered into the signature motif of the _Toccata_ , Maya joining in with the counterpoint a few notes later. There was no way he could stand up now, and disrupt the performance – the embarrassment would be beyond belief, especially as Phoenix appeared to have conspired and connived to make this happen in the first place. The thought depressed him - his first concert, and he wasn’t even going to be playing in it.

He let go of Phoenix’s jacket.

“Why have you done this?” he asked again. “At least give me a Goddamn reason for your stupidity.”

“I… had something to tell you,” Phoenix said quietly.

Miles couldn’t hear him over the forte tones of the _Toccata_ – the rest of the orchestra had come in on the repeat, creating an arpeggiated wall of sound.

“What?” he asked in irritation. “Speak up.”

Phoenix placed his trumpet carefully on the floorboards, leaned closer and repeated what he had said.

“And it couldn’t wait till the bloody interval?” Miles replied testily. “For God’s sake, Lana will hang us out to dry if she finds out! I’ve got solos in these first half pieces and so do you; it’ll be pretty damn obvious to the audience that we’re missing.”

“Our solos are covered. Trust me on that.”

“Oh? Oh, I see - so you’ve got other people clued into your little scheme, is that how it is? It’s Ema and Maya, isn’t it? They just walked right on by…”

“…Yeah. They’re playing our bits.”

_And they’re involved in this because…? How many other people know about this insane plot?_

Miles shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

“I… uh,” Phoenix scratched his head. “To be honest, I can’t believe I did it either. But there’s nothing either of us can do now, so will you at least listen to me?”

“I’ve hardly any choice now, have I?” Miles sat down, leaning his back against the wooden body of the timpani, oboe in his lap and legs stretched out on the floorboards. “This is madness.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Stop apologising. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”

There was a short silence between them. The sound of Iris’ flute broke through the barricade of block chords, a tumbling wave of sixteenth notes played in a single breath; they trailed off, allowing the chord motif to repeat.

“…Okay,” Phoenix sighed. “I know I’m just making excuses. It’s like, now I’m here, I’m not sure-”

“Look, will you just come out with whatever it is you want to say? It’s not as if I’m going anywhere for the next half hour thanks to your scheming, so stop dallying about and get it over with.”

“Right… Okay.”

A pause. The orchestra was moving into the slower section now – the _Fugue_. This was traditional baroque at its best. Mike was leading the opening passage – he didn’t seem to have any stage fright at all, his notes clear and carrying over the others. Miles could hear Ema’s clarinet playing the harmony – she wasn’t supposed to be playing; he was. Had she really sat down and learnt all of his parts?

Musing on this, he almost missed Phoenix saying it.

“I’m gay. And I like you.”

_…Huh?_

His train of thought snagged on that, entering a loop.

Some sort of reply was required to this.

Some sort of reply.

He needed to say something.

Ema was managing the higher notes of the harmony rather well. She must have been practicing it for some time. How had she managed that without Lana questioning her about it? The _Fugue_ was still moving apace, but the feel was lighter, strings spiralling away into the higher registers followed by a perfectly timed clarinet lead-in from Larry – his cues were normally a little sloppy, but for once he was giving it everything he had. It was strange to be listening like this, and not playing – he was more aware of the prominent meter that the piece had, the way tuba and double bass accented the beats to keep the momentum going-

He jumped at the touch on his hand.

He’d been tapping out the time signature on the barrel of his oboe without even realising it. He looked down at the larger hand covering his index finger, stilling it mid-beat. It shook a little. He glanced sideways. Phoenix was looking at him, his eyes betraying a little helplessness. Miles immediately looked away, at a loss as to what to say. His earlier anger and frustration was gone now, replaced by what he could only describe as a daze. The whole thing was so left-field, and under such bizarre circumstances, that it was as if his thought processes had switched off under the load. His head was full of Bach ornamentation as the orchestra shifted into a lower key behind them, and nothing else could come to mind. He shifted his finger, about to remove it, but Phoenix’s hand closed around it, as if it were the only connection he had left.

“Wait,” Phoenix said quickly. “At least let me say this: It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way. I honestly don’t mind. I just, I had to say it, I was going crazy and I had to get it out somehow.”

“…You’ve a funny way of showing it,” Miles said faintly. He could still feel the tremor running through Phoenix’s hand.

“I… yeah,” Phoenix took a breath to steady himself. “I shouldn’t have done this. I knew it was a bad idea even when Ema and Maya were explaining it to me – but I still went along with it because I couldn’t come up with anything better, and I couldn’t sit on it any longer. I didn’t know what else to do. This, all of this, was to make sure we were in the same place long enough for me to say it out, and talk to you about it. To,” he laughed shakily, “to try and sort things out.”

Miles was still trying to reorganise his thoughts, make sense of the whole thing. But it didn’t appear to _make_ any sense. There was no logical reason, to him, why Phoenix had done this.

“So, let me get this right,” he said slowly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat from the backlights was really beating down on them both, though the timpanis shielded them from the worst of the spotlights that shone on the rest of the orchestra. “I’m stuck here because you thought I might try and avoid you if you’d told me anywhere else?”

“That’s… about the size of it, yeah,” Phoenix said, a little self-conscious. “It sounds dumb when you say it like that. It probably is, I suppose. My biggest worry was that you wouldn’t give me an answer, really. “

“…You think,” Miles said incredulously, “I’m that much of a jerk?”

“Huh?” Phoenix blinked.

“God, I must be – there’s no way you would have pulled this outrageous stunt otherwise. I suppose it’s justified, after all those times I hid things from you, or cocked up and refused to admit that I was wrong. It’s no wonder you’re convinced I’d-” Miles broke off. He’d just realised something.

 _Is… that his motive for doing this? It must be. But that’s… oh, that is_ stupid.

“No! No, I… you,” Phoenix stammered, “I just thought you’d have difficulty dealing with the idea.”

“Why?”

“Because… uh-”

“Because I’m straight?” Miles said pointedly. Things were starting to fall into place.

“Well, I-”

“So there’s no room for me to be gay in this little scenario of yours? I have to turn you down to make this whole, crazy set-up justified?”

“Wait, I didn’t mean-!” Phoenix began to protest, then the penny dropped. “You, you are…?”

“You’re still holding onto my finger, you know. You’re slowly cutting off the circulation, in actual fact, but I’m putting up with it like the gracious individual I am because you seem rather reluctant to let go of it. I’m not going anywhere, but if you’re that worried about me making a run for it or smacking you upside the head, at the very least change your grip!”

Phoenix looked down at his hand, and indeed he still had a hold on Miles’ index finger, his own brushing against the smooth keywork of Miles’ oboe. Then he realised what this meant. Perhaps Maya’s Law did apply, after all.

“Oh, hell,” he let go of Miles’ finger, and tentatively took hold of the oboist’s hand, in a much softer hold this time. He was aware his palm was sweaty – whether it was the blazing arc lights above him, or his earlier panic, he wasn’t really sure. “I really have screwed this up, haven’t I?”

“I had you down as being fairly perceptive. It looks like I perhaps gave you too much credit,” Miles sighed. The whole thing was an absolute mess, but he was starting to recognise it for what it was – Phoenix had done it out of desperation. He placed his other hand over the top of Phoenix’s. “You’re still shaking. Stop it.”

“Uh, residual nerves, I guess?” Phoenix dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it. He felt like a slowly baking penguin in his tuxedo.

“You were that terrified of telling me?”

“Well… you did look as if you wanted to punch me in the face earlier.”

“I did. I might still – you’re a complete idiot, after all. It’s as if you thought yourself into a corner with this whole thing and couldn’t see any way out. Why were you so convinced that I’d object? Surely neither of us would be here if you didn’t at least have a glimmer of hope that I’d reciprocate. Or were you that eager to set yourself up for a fall?”

“I think I just didn’t dare believe I had a chance,” Phoenix admitted. “I’ve been sitting on this for so long that everything seemed kinda hopeless, and yet I couldn’t give it up.”

 _How long has this been going on for?_ Miles wondered. _And how did I utterly fail to notice he was even interested?_

“You hid it well. I didn’t have a clue,” he said. “Why me, anyway? I’m not a particularly fascinating individual. I wouldn’t go to such lengths to confess to the likes of me, if I were in your shoes. I’m a stuck-up jerk, after all,” he added wryly.

“You’re not stuck-up. Well, not as much as you used to be,” Phoenix chuckled, hooking a finger under the knot of his bow tie to try and undo it.

“Nonsense. I merely hide it better in the name of public relations. Having some trouble with that?” he nodded at Phoenix’s bowtie.

“Maya tied it really tight, and it’s a bit hot.”

“You can’t tie a bow tie?”

Phoenix gave him a guilty look.

“You really are hopeless.” Miles wriggled his hand out from under Phoenix’s, taking his reed case from his pocket and removing the reed from his oboe before gently putting the instrument on the floor. It was only when he bent forward, away from the timpani he’d been leaning against, that he released his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.

 

_Ugh._

He shrugged his shoulders a little to try and loosen it, then inched along on his knees until he was front of Phoenix, both hands reaching out for the knot at Phoenix’s throat.

Miles’ eyes were on the knot, but Phoenix’s were on the face across from him, a little spellbound by the brief look of intense concentration upon it as Miles traced the ties back to their origin and deftly disengaged the knot.

“There.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix breathed a sigh of relief, undoing the top button of his shirt and pulling the fabric aside to expose his collarbones, covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Heavens, the Bach is nearly over.” Miles could hear Diego see-sawing his way down into the lower registers on his double bass – the only instrument playing. He played the last note of his solo long and laden with vibrato, the others stepping in strongly to take up the chords. Then slowly, majestically, they entered the closing section, the tempo increasing bar by bar until they were in a full tempo final coda.

“You look kinda hot yourself,” Phoenix said. “Want me to undo yours?” he reached up for the bow tie around Miles’ neck.

“Leave that. I need it neat for my solo.”

“I bet you can do it up again as quickly as you undid mine. C’mon, you’ll roast otherwise.”

Miles went to undo it himself, but Phoenix brushed his hands away so he gave up, letting the trumpet-player fiddle with the knot. As he did so, Miles was aware of a sudden absence of sound. The final cadence of the _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_ died away. Then there was a storm of applause from the audience. It reminded him of what he was missing out on, and he felt a pang of regret. He knew they’d get the chance to rejoin the orchestra at the interval, but he still wished he was out there right now.

“Phoenix,” he said.

“Huh?”

“We could lose our jobs over this.”

Miles felt a little tug and then the tie was draped around his shoulders, loose. It was a relief to have air flowing around the nape of his neck. It had been a bit stifling.

“We won’t,” Phoenix replied. “Ema and Maya are a force to be reckoned with, believe me. They’ve got us covered. I tried to chicken out a few times before and they were pretty emphatic that Lana wouldn’t be the wiser for any of this.”

“That doesn’t mean anything when the entire orchestra know that we’re absent.”

“They won’t tell. I know that sounds a little strange, but, well… we look after our own,” Phoenix tried to explain. “When you’ve travelled with us long enough, you’ll see.”

“I suppose I shall,” Miles said resignedly. “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear that applause and know it’s not for me, though.”

Phoenix went quiet, eyes cast down. At that moment the _Pavane_ started, the string section plucking their way softly through the pizzicato opening.

“I really wish I hadn’t done it this way,” Phoenix murmured. “If I’d known everything was going to work out okay, I would’ve just told you in the interval, or something.”

Miles didn’t reply for a moment – he was listening to Ema playing the melody. Listening from the outside like this, he thought the feel of the piece was more romantic with the clarinet leading. It sounded better. Of course, he could produce a warm, mellow tone with his oboe, but somehow the timbre of the clarinet seemed a better match for the accompaniment. Listening made him forget, for a moment, how hot he was under the unyielding glare of the stage lights.

“I wish you hadn’t either,” he said finally. “But you weren’t to know how things would turn out. There’s no point wishing on what might have been.”

“I guess,” Phoenix sighed, looking up at him. “At least you haven’t socked me one. That’s something positive, right?”

“For you, yes,” Miles said blithely. He wriggled his shoulders again; his shirt was going to be glued to his back at this rate.

“You still look kinda hot,” Phoenix said. “Here,” he reached up again-

“Wait, what are you doing?” Miles looked down at the fingers trying to undo the top button of his shirt. “Stop that!”

“Oh, sorry,” Phoenix apologised, dropping his hands. “But you’re not gonna cool off if you leave it all done up to the neck like that.”

“I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are sweating like a pig.”

“So are you – can’t you feel it running down the sides of your face, or are you just denying its existence in the name of staying decent? Look, see?” Phoenix reached up and caught one of the trickling beads of sweat on his finger, backtracking along its path up to Miles’ temple.

Miles’ eyes unfocused, his attention directed to the site of the touch. He opened his mouth to say something, the objection half-formed, but failed to voice it.

Phoenix took his finger away, slowly and deliberately putting it into his mouth and sucking on it. Miles was staring at him, face already flushed from the heat but turning a different type of red entirely.

“Pretty salty. You should’ve drunk more water before the concert.”

Normally quick off the mark, it took Miles a second to come up with a retort.

“Shut up, _trumpet player_. You only had one bottle of water, same as me, though I’m damned if I’m tasting your sweat to prove it.”

Another bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Before it had been about bearable, but after that blatant seductive gesture from Phoenix he was being overwhelmed by the heat that had spread across his face as well as that from the arc lights overhead.

“One button,” Phoenix pointed at the little one at the top. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Miles didn’t reply, battling stubborn pride, and Phoenix took it as confirmation, slowly reaching up, giving plenty of opportunity for Miles to bat his hands away if it wasn’t what he wanted. Miles lifted his arms, as if about to, but then dropped them back down again.

In a second it was undone, and Phoenix’s fingers brushed slick against Miles’ damp skin, sliding underneath the stiff collar and gently pushing the shirt open at the top. Miles felt a blissful rush of cool air as it was exposed. Phoenix’s palms rested on his shoulders, fingers subtly massaging the skin beneath their tips.

“Better?” he asked.

For a moment, Miles was intimately aware of every point of contact Phoenix’s hands had on his skin, and of the musky odour of their sweat. Phoenix stopped rubbing the skin of his shoulders, fingers quiescent. Another few seconds passed, Maya’s violin singing strongly over their heads while the trumpet that should have been sounding the part lay silent on the floorboards beside them.

Miles was feeling the slow burn of arousal build up inside him. Inwardly he was kicking himself for letting Phoenix have any kind of access to the sensitive parts of his skin after what had just passed between them, but a part of him wondered if perhaps he had wanted this anyway after Phoenix’s abrupt confession. He had offered the initial encouragement in the form of a hand-hold, after all. Yes, their current stance was at least partially his fault, though Phoenix was certainly just as guilty. And yet, he’d never really considered Phoenix as a potential partner before now. But it hardly mattered at this stage, not when his smart but tight-fitting trousers were getting this uncomfortable. He glanced down at the obvious bulge.

_I can’t go onstage with this…!_

Looking back up, he found that Phoenix was looking down at the same spot. Phoenix met his gaze once more, a grin spreading across his face.

_Oh, to hell with it all._

“Don’t you dare comment, Phoenix Wright.” Miles reached for Phoenix’s crotch, cupping his hand firmly over the hard bump there and causing Phoenix to breathe in sharply. “You’re in no,” he stroked his hand over it, feeling Phoenix tighten his grip on his shoulders in response, “position to.”

He leaned in, putting his free arm around Phoenix’s shoulders, and pressed his lips against those of the trumpet player’s, their sweat intermingling as their noses brushed. Phoenix’s lips were stiff at first, showing Miles straight away that he wasn’t an experienced kisser, so he ran over them encouragingly with his tongue, kissing the top one lightly, and then the bottom one. Phoenix copied him happily, and made a small noise at the back of his throat when Miles slipped his tongue between his lips. Miles kept his other hand resting against Phoenix’s erection – he was in no hurry to start moving that just yet. He preferred to take his time, and he still had half an ear for the _Pavane_ continuing on stage – it was a slow, passionate piece and in a dreamy, amorous fashion his kisses became sloppier, warmer, eyes dropping half-closed.

Phoenix tried to run his hand further down Miles’ back but his shirt needed peeling from his skin so he gave up that avenue of exploration, choosing to venture further down the front end, cheekily undoing a few more buttons to trace little circles around Miles’ right nipple with a delicate finger. There was no sign of his earlier nervousness now – but Miles wasn’t about to comment on it. He shivered under the featherstrokes of Phoenix’s finger, nipple hardening immediately, but Phoenix moved on, his touch inquisitive and searching for new sites to explore. It was inevitable where his hand should eventually end up, and Miles gasped, eyes flying open as he felt the pressure of Phoenix’s supple fingers on his cock. He thrusted against the touch, half unhooking his arm from around Phoenix’s neck because he badly wanted to put his hand on top of Phoenix’s and press harder. Belatedly he realised this would make him appear rather desperate and with an exertion of willpower managed to stop himself from clapping a hand down there. But he couldn’t quite help making little movements against the press of those fingers, because each one sent another tingle of excitement through his shaft, making it harder.

_God, I need to get a hold of myself… I’m wet already-_

He could feel the warm, wet release of precome at the tip of his penis – just a trickle, but it only added to the damp, sweaty sensation down there.

_Then again, it’s been a long time since I last did anything like this._

It didn’t really matter, anyway. As long as Phoenix was willing to keep touching him like this, he didn’t really care. Phoenix was new to all this; Miles could tell just by the way his hands roamed, eager to experience and take in. But that was just more exciting, because it made him unpredictable.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” he said into Phoenix’s ear.

“It’s that obvious?” Phoenix asked, tracing the outline and making Miles wince as his trousers became even tighter. “Yeah… I’ve known I was gay since high school but I never really did anything about it before now. Been curious, but hadn’t really met anybody I wanted to try with before now.”

“I suppose you’re not doing so badly,” Miles tried to sound noncommittal, “for a trumpet player.”

There was a glint in Phoenix’s eye at this.

“I’ll show you what a trumpet player can be good at,” he said, stretching his legs out so he was half-lying on the floor and going for the zip in Miles’ trousers.

“W-wait, we can’t do that here-!” But Phoenix already had the zip half undone – it relieved a little of the pressure on Miles’ erection but his trousers were so closely tailored that they still felt tight when he was filling them like this. Sweaty fingers left prints on his white underpants as Phoenix pulled the fabric down and down to expose his penis, and he shuddered at the warm, wet sensation as Phoenix leaned right into his lap and closed his mouth around it, forming a firm embrouchre that made him moan, low and long, and fortunately covered by the thrum of Diego’s double bass.

“Thish shalty toogh,” Phoenix said around it, breaking his mouth seal. His tongue brushed against the head of Miles’ cock as he said this, and it tickled.

“Don’t you dare,” Miles managed to choke out, “make a mess on my trousers.”

“Hurr,” Phoenix breathed; the warmth of the sound against his sensitive skin sent another heatwave of arousal over Miles, causing fresh sweat to break out across his forehead. “Won’t, promise,” he stuck his tongue out and dragged the tip of it up the length of the underside of Miles’ shaft, catching a bit of loose foreskin at the top and rubbing it around, up and down.

He was just playing around, Miles knew, but he wasn’t sure he could take much more of this – he was burning up already. He fumbled for Phoenix’s head, stroking his lank, sweat-dampened hair appreciatively but not really paying much attention to the motion – it was clumsy, his thoughts directed down below. Phoenix was pulling his pants down more, fishing inside them with a couple of fingers. Fingernails scratched against his scrotum, which was itchy with sweat – that was good, and it was a relief to have a good scratch, but it was only temporary, until Phoenix got hold of what he was after. Miles froze as three fingers hooked gently under one of his balls, lifting it out and-

“Oh,” he sighed at the pleasure of it – Phoenix had taken the whole thing into his mouth, sucking on it. It was tight enough to hurt a little, but it gave him a totally different kind of ache, one that made another streak of precome dribble down his shaft. He was dimly aware that he wasn’t really doing much for Phoenix in return, and so he ran his fingers down Phoenix’s neck and to massage the skin over his vertebrae. But even then, that movement was half-hearted, and eventually he stopped altogether, completely taken over by the sensation of Phoenix sucking on him. Prickles of excitement were building up within him – his cock felt huge, it couldn’t get any harder than this. It was resting against Phoenix’s forehead, and when Phoenix moved it waved a little, skidding on the sweat bedecking Phoenix’s forehead and smearing it with Miles’ own fluids.

Phoenix eventually released the testicle he was sucking on and returned his attentions to Miles’ cock, running his tongue over the tip while it was inside his mouth and making a bit of a face as Miles involuntarily released another surge of precome. Miles’ eyes were dropping closed – the visual input was just too much, he wanted to concentrate on the music and feel the tight sensation of Phoenix’s mouth on his cock, the wetness of saliva mingling with precome and sweat.

Phoenix slowly lifted his head away, his lips brushing lightly over the ridge of his penis. Miles stiffened; that part was sensitive and he reflexively applied pressure to the back of Phoenix’s head to try and get him to stay there and pay more attention to it. Phoenix paused, then flicked the ridge with his tongue. Miles jerked, uttering a low cussword and digging his fingers into Phoenix’s hair, tangling it. The tingling beneath his skin was overwhelming him now. He was so close to coming, at the point of wanting to so desperately, and yet wanting to experience the swollen sensation of his erection for a little while longer, have Phoenix suck him off more because it was so good. But as he opened his eyes to look down at Phoenix, the trumpet-player looked back up at him with a wicked look in his eyes, one crooked eyebrow quirking up. Then he winked, and gently applied his teeth.

“-!”

Miles’ hand flew to his mouth, he bit down on his index finger to stop himself crying out – the orchestra were playing the _pianissimo_ closing passage to the _Pavane_ , the violins barely audible, and he was sure to be heard otherwise. He lost the last shred of his self-control at that moment, leaning back on one elbow, arching his back and thrusting his cock up into the roof of Phoenix’s mouth, and with that came momentary pain as Phoenix’s teeth clipped his skin, but that was totally eclipsed by the riding wave of his climax, that seemed to go on, and on, throbbing and pulsing. He couldn’t stop jetting and spurting into Phoenix’s mouth, but the trumpet player was swallowing repeatedly, eyes screwed shut at the taste but still swallowing nonetheless. Finally, with a few shudders and spasms, it passed. He sighed with weary relief, and the auditorium was filled with applause for the _Pavane_ that had just finished. His finger hurt – he stopped biting down on it, and taking it from his mouth he realised he’d left teeth marks imprinted into his skin. He still had the fingers of his other hand snarled up in Phoenix’s hair, and Phoenix still had his cock in his mouth, warm and beginning to soften. He stopped gripping Phoenix’s hair so fiercely, and Phoenix was able to lift his head, eyes a little glazed as he took his mouth away. His hair was a mess, fringe plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there was a white smear of come at the corner of his mouth, as well as more drying on his forehead from earlier.

“Forgive me,” Miles’ voice came out as little more than a whisper. “I couldn’t take the teeth – or I would’ve given you more warning.”

There was an explosion of sound from the orchestra and the two of them jumped. The Travelling Symphony had launched into the brisk _March_ from Tchaikovsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_ , the strings playing the bright and merry melody. Phoenix broke into a grin.

“That’s the first time I’ve _ever_ heard you apologise for anything – and you apologise for that?” his speech was a little thick, and he swallowed again, still tasting semen on his tongue. “Yeuch, that could’ve tasted a hell of a lot better.” He dug his handkerchief out to wipe his face.

“I can normally hold it in longer,” Miles tried to explain, “but it’s been a long time since I… er, yes,” he wouldn’t look at Phoenix as he said that, instead tugging at his shirt, trying to pull the damp cotton away from his sides and his underarms.

“S’alright. But…” Phoenix pulled at Miles’ underpants, gently pushing everything back inside and zipping up his fly. “Could you, uh, return the favour?” he asked. “It’s… starting to get a bit sore, now.” He sat up, taking Miles’ hand and planting it firmly on his own erection while looking the oboist in the eye. His cheeks were suffused with pink, and he was pressing Miles’ hand a little, squashing his cock and rubbing it up and down. So he wanted it just as badly.

“Of course,” Miles replied, taking over the movement and leaning in to kiss him again. The energetic pace of the _March_ restored in him a little vigour, and his kisses were quick and lively, hands wandering with a bit more attention than he was paying before. Phoenix was responding passionately, and this time with a little tongue of his own – he put in a bit too much and Miles reflexively responded by pushing it away with his own, to avoid gagging. Phoenix got the hint and stayed at the front, his own hands reaching down to Miles’ bottom and cupping his cheeks. Miles tried to ignore the fresh arousal this generated – he loved being touched on his ass – but Phoenix was stroking him with his fingers. Trying to distract himself, he unzipped Phoenix’s fly and inserted his hand inside. Phoenix wriggled against him a little as he turned his hand – there wasn’t much room in there, the fabric of Phoenix’s trousers was tight against his hand because the trumpet-player’s erection took up most o f the space. But he managed to get his hand inside Phoenix’s pants – it was hot and sticky, and fluid smeared across his wrist as he moved down to cup Phoenix’s balls in his palm. Phoenix grunted into his mouth, the hands on his rear tightening their grip and pushing them together.

Miles broke off the kiss to say,

“I can’t suck you off; it’ll affect my reed later. But I can at least do this for you.” He massaged Phoenix’s balls. “Is that good?”

“Fuck, yes,” Phoenix lay his head on Miles’ shoulder, lips warm against Miles’ collarbone. “Just having your hand in my pants is like being on another planet – but God, I need to come. _Please_.”

Miles knew it wasn’t long until the interval – the orchestra were coming to the end of the _March_ , and the _Russian Dance_ they were about to modulate into was only a minute long.

“Hard and fast, hm?” he said, tilting his head forward to brush his lips against Phoenix’s neck, the skin beneath them quivering at his touch.

He shuffled to the side a little, out of the line of fire, then stroked his fingers up, releasing Phoenix’s testicles and running them up Phoenix’s cock to ring the base of it with his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers curling around the shaft to secure his firm grip. He squeezed, feeling Phoenix push into the grip.

“Hold on for as long as you can,” he said. “See if you can make it to the end of the Dance – it’ll feel even better that way.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Phoenix groaned.

Miles waited a bar, placing his free hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to keep his balance, and then at the instant the orchestra switched into the _Russian Dance_ he began to move his hand, a quick stroke up, a hard stroke down, timing the down stroke with the beat. Phoenix’s hands immediately moved to his waist, his head pressing into Miles’ shoulder and fingers gripping tight at Miles’ hips to brace himself. His breathing became harsh, ragged grunts in time with the strokes, and Miles could feel the sweat pooling at his collarbone. It was a lot of physical exertion for him as well, and he was starting to pant.

Maya’s violin was taking up Phoenix’s trumpet part, and Pearl was doing something odd with her cello – she was meant to have a straightforward bass line for this part but she had abandoned it, jumping up an octave to replace the missing second violin part. Diego was playing Pearl’s line instead, double-stopping it with his own on two strings.

Phoenix was shaking, still trying to hold in his orgasm. The fingers clutching at Miles’ hips were moving now, quick little spasms up and down, back and forward, as if grappling against the growing climax as he wanked Phoenix off. The music was starting to build up, the brass section overlaying the quick violins with a forte fanfare, and Miles tightened his grip, pushing his hand right down to the base of Phoenix’s cock with each stroke – 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-

“Ah, ah, ahh!” Phoenix cried, and a quaver before the orchestra hit the final note he came, splattering the floor in front of him. Miles immediately moved his hand out of the way to avoid getting any on his sleeve, though he didn’t stop pumping Phoenix until he was well and truly finished. The applause was still going – the first half was over and the audience had loved it. Phoenix was still partly collapsed against Miles, out of breath, but he lifted his head with effort and managed to raise a smile.

“Thankyou,” he said fervently, then flopped back against him, breathing beginning to slow down.

“My pleasure,” Miles fished in Phoenix’s pocket for the handkerchief and used it to mop the floorboards. It wouldn’t do for Franziska to find any stains, after all.

The lights went down and the cool darkness that covered them was a relief, concealing them from the orchestra as they stood and filed offstage. Maya glanced sideways at the timpanis, seeing nothing there. She looked across at Ema, who shrugged, a grin on her face.

“Seems like it went pretty well, huh?” Ema said loudly so it carried. “Mr. Georgiy looked happy!”

“He sure did,” Maya agreed. “I’m stoked for the next half! We’ll _all_ do our best.”

At that, Miles looked down at Phoenix, who raised his head and flashed him a thumbs up sign. Miles nodded.

The two girls walked offstage, fanning themselves with their sheet music. Phoenix zipped himself back up again, and Miles looked through the timpanis at the stage. The coast was clear – the auditorium was only partly vacated, but the orchestra was off the stage and with the lights down they could sneak away unnoticed.

“Ready?” Miles took out his own, clean handkerchief and wiped his face, picking up his oboe.

Phoenix ran his hands through his hair, spiking it back up again.

“Yup,” he grabbed his trumpet.

Bobbed down low, they emerged from behind the timpanis and successfully made it into the wings. Miles’ legs complained as he stood up – they’d been knelt down for ages.

“How do you feel about your solo now?” Phoenix asked.

“Oh, heavens,” Miles immediately got out his reed case, picking out his favourite and putting it between his lips to warm it. “That’s next!”

Phoenix grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“You can do it,” he said, letting go.

“Oh, of course _I_ can,” Miles said around the reed as they walked down the steps into the corridor. “But I’ll sound like a dying duck if I don’t warm my reed up in time!” Once they were out into the light, he turned. “Do I look okay? Anything out of place?”

“Your tie!” Phoenix pointed. “Crap, mine too.”

Miles had his done up in a moment.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he pushed away Phoenix’s fumbling fingers and did up the trumpet player’s tie. “There, that’s you.”

They hurried down the corridor to the Green Room.

“AH!” came a voice from behind them.

They both turned to see Alexei Georgiy standing there, a look of relief on his face.

“There you are!” he said in heavily accented English. “I worry you not come back in time, but Miss Fey say yes, you be there. You!” he patted Phoenix on the shoulder with a bear-like paw. “Your secret is safe with me,” he tapped the side of his nose with a wink, “but you spend your money more carefully in future, yes? You have good friends,” he gestured to Miles, “but they cannot save you from repeated pickles – understood?”

“Uh… yes!” Phoenix gulped. “It’ll never happen again, Mr. Georgiy. Never, ever again. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused,” he bowed his head.

Alexei smiled.

“The problem is not one,” he said. “The Symphony played well, they adapted magnificent. But in future you keep your trumpet out of the, how you say,” he muttered the Russian word, “the place you take things when you have no money…”

“The pawnshop?” Miles supplied.

“Ah, yes!”

“The… pawnshop?” Phoenix blinked. What on earth had the girls told him?

“Hm, perhaps that is not the right word after all,” Alexei frowned. “But no matter!” he held up one finger. “I say nothing, you can trust Alexei – now head that way,” he pointed down the hall, “your friends are waiting for you, and there is wine too. Soothe the nerves after rushing across town, yes? I must away to meet Ms. Skye and Mr. Gant – you play well for second half, now; you have catching up to do!”

“We do, and we shall,” Miles bowed graciously to Alexei. “I will play the best I have ever played.”

“Seconded!” Phoenix chimed in.

Alexei laughed.

“Then I shall enjoy listening!” he boomed, then span on his heel and headed off down the corridor.

Miles and Phoenix exchanged glances after he’d gone.

“What was that all about?” Miles asked.

“Not a clue, and that worries me,” Phoenix scratched his head. “I think if we speak to Ema and Maya, all will become clear. Which worries me more.”

Miles nodded at the door leading to the Green Room.

“May as well face the music?” he said.

“It’ll be okay… I hope?” Phoenix replied, trying to summon confidence.

“It’d better be. Or I really will smack you upside the head.”

They walked across to the Green Room and pushed the door open.  



	12. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Author notes:  
>  1) There are long musical descriptions in here. The whole fic's been building up to Miles' solo (Gabriel's Oboe) and the performance of Appalachian Spring, so I wanted to do the two pieces justice. Make sure you have them playing while you're reading!_
> 
> Appalachian Spring   
>  Gabriel's Oboe
> 
> _2) Brief background to the exchange between Miles and Phoenix towards the end: Symphony orchestras don't, or very rarely, give encores.[More information](http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/if-music-be-the-food-they-love-play-on-1311007.html)._

__

Inside, the orchestra were tucking into the wine and nibbles set out for them, chatting amongst themselves. Dick was the first to spot them.

“You guys!” he exclaimed. “Where the hell did you go?”

“Um, well,” Phoenix began, “something kinda came up,” he grinned sheepishly.

“It, er, needed dealing with,” Miles added, pulling at his shirt again. It was drying off now they were in the cooler room.

Diego was shaking his head.

“You sure picked a time to disappear,” he grumbled. “You owe us one, big time. It was tough work, covering for you guys. Do it again and there’ll be trouble, got it?”

“It was a one-off, believe me,” Phoenix assured him. “And when we hit up that espresso place in Rome, I’ll buy you a triple-shot to say sorry.”

“Quadruple.”

“Triple with cream.”

“Triple with double cream.”

“Done!” they shook hands.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Diego warned. “So don’t go giving your spare change to the buskers, got it?”

“My silence isn’t so easily bought, I’ll have you know,” Angel loomed up behind them, a hard expression on her face.

Phoenix turned to face her, and he wilted a little under the force of her glare.

“Ack! Uh, uh, Copenhagen?” he said hopefully.

Angel continued glaring at him until she suddenly remembered.

“Oh! Yes, I suppose,” she conceded, switching on a smile. “I’d forgotten about that. You should too.”

“Forget about what?” Phoenix said, mustering up a blank look.

Angel patted him on the head.

“That’s a boy,” she smiled.

 _Are they all in each other’s pockets?_ Miles thought in disbelief. He had a feeling that the other members of the orchestra knew the truth behind their disappearance, but even then they seemed willing to forgive, despite the ridiculous circumstances. Though he sincerely hoped they didn’t know _all_ of it.

Miles felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Iris standing there.

“Where did you two vanish off to?” she asked. “Or should I not ask?”

“You’ve every right to ask,” he replied. “But perhaps repeat the question sometime in the future, when I’ve wrapped my head around the answer,” he spread his hands out in a bit of a helpless gesture. “Because I’m not too sure right now.”

Iris laughed.

“Clear as mud – that’s the story of the Travelling Symphony. I think you fit right in!”

He had to admit, she probably had a point there.

“All good?” Ema sidled up to him, a glass of juice in her hand.

“You had a hand in all of this, didn’t you?” Miles accused her.

“Umm, yeah, kinda,” Ema admitted. “But only a helping hand!”

“Meddling hand more like,” Miles retorted. “You and Maya are terrible. It explains all those trips to the sandwich shop during Christmastime; you were plotting this all along, weren’t you?”

They nodded, grinning.

“I should’ve noticed long ago; what a lapse on my part,” Miles ran a hand through his bangs, trying to unstick a few locks from his forehead. "Come to think of it, how Dick and Maggey haven’t cottoned onto your attempts to orchestrate ‘alone time’ for them, I honestly don’t know.”

“Ahhh, we’re subtle like that!” Maya had popped up behind him, tapping the side of her nose with a wink.

“Locking them in the vestry is subtle?!”

“Well, this is Dick and Maggey we’re talking about,” Ema pulled her glasses down onto her nose, looking over the tops of them in an authoritarian fashion. “Jungian typology indicates a more sledgehammer approach is required for a good result.”

“It didn’t even work anyway!” Maya sighed. “They just sat in there and talked about the weather until we ‘rediscovered’ the vestry key. They’re hopeless, the pair of them - we’ll have to try another tactic.”

“Have you not heard of leaving well alone and letting things take their natural course?”

“But they’ll be old fogies by then!” Ema exclaimed.

“Just like you and Nick would’ve been,” Maya pointed out with a chuckle. “Admit it, Miles, you never noticed Nick was interested, did you?”

“In my defence, he didn’t exactly make it obvious!”

“Ah, y’see, hence the drastic measures!” Ema held up one finger, eyes bright. “They were as much for his benefit as for yours – so he couldn’t chicken out.”

“You know, Ema, we should totally start charging for our consultations,” Maya said. “We’d be rich!”

“I see a flaw with this – none of your clients are actually voluntary,” Miles pointed out.

“’Course they are!” Ema scoffed. “They just don’t know they need our help, poor misguided souls.”

“I think I’ll give up while I’m ahead,” Miles said resignedly. “Answer me one question though – what the hell did you say to Alexei Georgiy?”

The girls giggled.

“I think that was our finest hour, wasn’t it, Maya?” Ema grinned.

“Sure was! Given we had two microseconds to come up with it.”

“God, this is going to be horrific, I can just tell,” Miles groaned. “Come on, out with it.”

“Well, we told him Nick had run up a debt on one of his credit cards, y’see” Maya continued.

“And ‘cause he has no money, when the bailiffs came to take away all his worldly possessions after the daytime rehearsal, the only thing they could take was his trumpet!”

“Yup, so as far as Mr. Georgiy knows, we all took pity on poor, destitute, ex-busker Nick and donated money to buy back his trumpet, and you drove him right the way across town to rescue it from the pawnshop in time for the second half of the concert. You saved the day!”

“Just like they do in the films!” Ema chimed in. “You know, I think we’ve got a box office smash hit in the making here.”

Miles stared at them both.

“Why in God’s name did he believe you?” he said incredulously. “That’s the most ridiculous excuse I ever heard!”

“Ah, but that was the beauty of it!” Maya said fiendishly. “It was so stupid, we couldn’t possibly have made it up.”

Miles tried to wrap his head around this logic of theirs. But it only made his brain hurt.

“Please,” he said fervently, “just never do that again. For the sake of my mental health?”

“It’s alright, Miles,” Maya patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll never be as crazy as we are.”

“For some reason, that’s small consolation,” Miles said weakly, then headed to the drinks table to get a glass of water; though he could have done with a stronger tipple after _that_ particular conversation, it would only wreck his reed later on.

He spotted Phoenix and Pearl standing at the other end of the room – Phoenix had a distinctly cornered look on his face, so he moved closer to try and hear what was going on.

“But why, Mr. Nick?” Pearl was asking tearfully. “Don’t you love Mystic Maya anymore?”

“Of course I do, Pearls – but you don’t have to be going out with someone to love them. You can love them as a friend too,” Phoenix was trying to explain.

“But she loves you! You’re meant to be together – she’ll be lonely without you,” Pearl wiped away some of her tears with her hand, looking up at him. “I don’t want her to be lonely…”

“She’ll never be lonely, Pearls. She’s got you! I don’t think I could love Maya anything like as much as you do, you know – I could give her all the love in the world and it wouldn’t be as much as yours.”

Pearl’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Really?” she gasped, but then she thought about this and frowned, looking a little sad. “But that’s a different kind of love, Mr. Nick.”

“And that’s the kind of love I have for Maya, Pearls. Not the other kind that you’re thinking of – that’s not something I can give her, but she’ll find the right person one day. Trust me on that.”

Finally, Pearl seemed to understand.

“You think?” she asked, voice wobbling a little.

Phoenix looked over the top of her head at Miles, inclining his head a little to one side in question. By way of reply, Miles raised his eyebrows and shrugged. If Phoenix was willing to give a relationship a try, then so was he.

“I don’t just think, Pearls,” Phoenix said, hunkering down so he was level with her, eyes sincere. “I know she will. After all, there’s no way she’d let me get one up on her, is there?” he winked.

“Oh!” Pearl exclaimed. “That’s a good point, Mister Nick – I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Actually, that means… that means she’ll find someone very soon! How exciting,” she said gleefully. “I wonder who it will be?”

“Nobody in this room, I hope, for the sake of her sanity,” Miles said drily, putting his empty glass of water on the table and fishing out his reed case – he needed to start warming the reed, for the interval was nearly finished.

Maya caught sight of them and hurried over.

“Pearly!” she called. “I hope you’re being nice to Nick.”

“I am, Mystic Maya,” Pearly held up one hand, pinky extended. “We made a pinky promise, didn’t we?”

“We sure did!” Maya hooked it with her own, then pulled her giggling cousin into a hug. “She hasn’t smacked you one, then?” she asked Phoenix.

“Nah, we’re good, aren’t we, Pearls?” Phoenix grinned, high-fiving the little cellist. “But you better watch out, you don’t know who she might pick for you next!”

“So you scored, huh, Nick-o?” Larry came up to Phoenix, punching him on the shoulder with a wink. “Damn, that was pretty slick, skiving off in the middle of a concert!”

“Shhhh!” Phoenix hissed, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Hey, Pearls,” he called out. “What about Larry for Maya, whaddaya reckon?”

“Mmmfyeah!” Larry whooped, muffled by Phoenix’s hand.

Pearl looked Larry up and down shrewdly, and Maya opened her mouth to object, but Pearl shook her head.

“Uh-uh. I don’t think he’s right for Mystic Maya,” she said, eight-year-old honesty shining through. “He needs a haircut.”

There was a loud snort from Miles, who tried to hide his laughter behind his hand, but it set all the others off.

“Ohhhh despair!” Larry wailed, hanging his head. “Cut down by an eight-year old – my life is over!”

Pearl looked a little confused – she couldn’t figure out why everybody was laughing.

“Ah, I love you, Pearly,” Maya was breathless from laughter. “You can vet all my prospective boyfriends in future!”

Pearl brightened up at that.

“You can count on me, Mystic Maya – I’ll find you your special someone!”

The door opened and Lana entered the room, followed by Franziska. The hubbub immediately quietened and the members of the orchestra turned to face them.

“Congratulations for an excellent first half, orchestra,” Lana smiled at them all. “I’ve been hovering around in the foyer – the audience are singing your praises, believe me.”

“Looks like you’ve been earning Papa’s patronage,” Franziska said smugly.

“So we’ve got it then?” Will asked hopefully.

Lana nodded, an expression of somewhat motherly pride on her face.

“YES!” Larry whooped. “Oh yeah, we’ve hit the bigtime - no more shitty hostels! C’mere, Franzy, lemme give you a hug!” he threw his arms out towards Franziska, who gave him a withering look and extended one stiletto-heeled foot in his direction to ward him off.

“I wouldn’t break out the champagne quite yet on that front, though,” Lana said blithely. “Our insurance premiums have tripled thanks to our mass claim, you know – our coffers aren’t _quite_ healthy enough for four-star accommodation. Though we may at least be able to drop that YMCA booking in London…”

This was met with raucous cheers all round.

“Is it really that bad?” Miles asked Phoenix as he put his oboe together.

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Phoenix shuddered convulsively.

“Miles?” Lana called out. “Are you ready for your solo?”

“Yes,” Miles said, slotting his warmed reed into his oboe. _As ready as I’ll ever be._

“Come this way, then,” Lana beckoned with one finger. “We’ll find you somewhere away from this rabble so you can hear yourself tune.”

“Good luck!” the others clapped him on the back on his way out. “You’ll be fine!”

Miles glanced over his shoulder just before letting the door shut, and he saw Phoenix tip him a farewell salute. He nodded grimly, then turned and followed Lana down the corridor. He tuned in the wings, breathing slowly to still the jumpiness in his fingers.

 _I can do this,_ he repeated to himself. _I’ve done recitals, I’ve done solo passages on Broadway – this shouldn’t be any different._

But logic failed to batten down his fluttering stomach, because this _was_ different, in so many ways. He would just have to accept it – he was nervous; in fact, the thought of so many people scrutinising him, watching his fingers, watching his face as he played… he tensed his stomach muscles reflexively against the lurch this always brought on.

_I’ve played it so many times – what’s one more in front of an audience?_

But this was no consolation either – not when he knew who was watching.

“All right?” Lana asked him.

“Mr. Gant and Mr. Von Karma are in the audience, aren’t they?” Miles said quietly.

“Yes. But don’t play it to them. Play it to the forty-three year old lady in the middle of row F, who’s never seen _The Mission_ in her life and doesn’t know what’s going to hit her.”

“Right,” Miles looked across the stage – the others were lining up in the wings on the opposite side, and Maya waved at him.

“Oh, and don’t forget to look at the audience – I know you can’t see hide nor hair of them with the arc lights in your face like that, but at least give them the impression you’re looking their way. Got it?”

“Understood,” Miles replied, his fingers flying into position for the first note. He could probably find it blindfolded, upside down, in his sleep, or even with no oboe in his hands at all.

The lights in the auditorium went down, and the orchestra filed back onstage to applause from the audience. They took their seats, and the applause died down. Now, they were all waiting for him.

“On you go,” Lana said.

There was no longer any time for him to be nervous – he had to shove it all down into the pit of his frozen stomach and walk, slowly, robotically, onto the stage. The audience began clapping again, the noise filling his ears as he headed to the centre of the stage, eyes fixed in front of him, and turned slowly to face the gaping blackness of the auditorium. Lana was right, with the spotlights shining on him he couldn’t see a thing, only the branch-like afterimages of the veins in his eyes. That made it easier, and he felt his nervousness seeping away with the dying applause, leaving a loose feeling of calm. Deprived of sight, he was a statue with an oboe in his hands, still, silent, ears waiting to receive music.

His mind emptied, and under the heat of the lights his thoughts drifted back to what had happened between him and Phoenix during the first half. With that memory he still felt an element of confusion, but he also reconnected with that post-orgasmic feeling of weary contentment. It wasn’t new, but it felt somehow changed, in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. Yet he didn’t feel unsettled, as he normally did when things took him by surprise. It was as if everything had fallen into place, and he knew where he fitted in.

Franziska came in with a gentle roll on the timpanis. Miles didn’t need to count himself in – he felt the meter and at his entry he breathed in deeply, the tenseness dissipating, and coaxed a gentle waterfall of rosewood notes from his oboe, the warm tones of the reed colouring them with a timbre that conveyed a fundamental sense of place in the world. His sound filled the auditorium, buoyed up on soft strings and harpsichord, the notes weaving together as his fingers nimbly walked the keywork, quick here, lingering there, giving each note an identity while maintaining a seamless whole with subtle pulses of vibrato. He was barely aware of where his fingers pressed; they flew to keys of their own accord as he reacted to what he heard, and with the adrenaline flowing he was soaring high with his own notes, revelling in the sheer power with which he could express them. He reached the top B effortlessly, holding the note bright and clear, carrying across the heads of his listeners as the strings muted to let the following subtonic penetrate.

As he let that note die away, he realised the silence in the auditorium was complete. This was a true rest in music – the sound of listening. But a rest is not an end, and softly he broke that silence with the repeating motif. Yet the repeat, though identical in notation, was a class apart in meaning. Miles’ thoughts were with the monk, Gabriel, whose theme he was playing. Lana had lent him a copy of _The Mission_ to watch a few months ago. The first entrance of _Gabriel’s Oboe_ in the film was at the point where the monk was surrounded by Indian savages about to murder him. Captivated by the music the monk played, the savages allowed him to enter their society and start a mission, earning their trust. But Miles had been taken aback to find the song used as it was in Gabriel’s final moments as he and most of the Guarani tribe were shot dead by colonial riflemen ousting them from the mission. He played with new understanding after this, and his second repeat was subtly quieter, more subdued – perhaps even a little lonely, and with the lower tones of Pearl’s cello and Maggey’s viola leading the string accompaniment this time around, there was none of the uplift of the first passage. The harpsichord line marched on through it all, and Miles surged into the last passage, his notes swelling above the accompaniment in a plaintive plea for things to change. But although the ending to the film was a sad, inevitable one, his final notes were not ones of regret – they were a sense of acceptance, of things having been completed. Miles stilled to hold the last note, his own vibrato filling his ears, and he felt a small echo of Gabriel’s accomplishment. This was what he’d always wanted – the chance to play with a symphony orchestra. And at last, he was here, and he had done it.

He let his closing note die away and, lost in his own sense of contentment, slowly took the reed from his lips. The applause nearly made him jump - it was deafening, coming from all sides. He stood for a moment, disoriented by this abrupt cacophony coming seemingly from nowhere, so blinded was he by the stage lights. But then a silly kind of euphoria took him over as he realised that this was for him, for his playing. He maintained a professional face for the audience, remembering to bow, but when he stepped aside and turned to gesture towards the orchestra so the audience could applaud them too, he couldn’t help himself, breaking into the biggest smile. The pride and elation filling him now was a feeling that couldn’t compare with anything else. Lana nodded to him from her seat at the electronic piano, smiling back at him, and the orchestra were all clapping. The applause seemed to go on and on, so Miles turned and bowed again to the audience, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Lana gesture, and that meant he needed to go and take his seat. Still a little dizzy with joy at the reception he’d received, he rejoined the orchestra, sitting down to claps on the back from all sides.

“Man, if you grinned any wider than that your face would split,” Larry winked at him. “It’s a good feeling, huh?”

Miles nodded in reply. He was still trying to come back down to ground level after that, and was finding it difficult to rearrange his face from beaming loon to deadpan performer once more. There was a familiar tap on his shoulder and he turned to look behind him. Phoenix was grinning at him, which made it even harder for Miles to get rid of his own.

“You knocked that audience for six – did you see Mr. Gant? He gave you a standing ovation!”

“What?!” Miles immediately turned around to scan the audience – he had a better view now there weren’t arc lights in his face. But he couldn’t spot a bright orange sports jacket anywhere.

“Third row from the front, but he sat down. Never mind – ready for the big one?”

“Ah! Yes, er-” No, he wasn’t ready, he needed his flute, and the right page of his sheet music…

 _Concentrate,_ he instructed himself, finally wrenching himself out of his bubble of euphoria.

His flute was in his hands, the sheet music was in front of him, and Lana was ready, baton raised. The audience had quietened, and they were waiting in anticipation. The silence allowed Miles to still himself, take a slow breath. Above his head, Phoenix had his trumpet to his lips, ready and waiting.

Lana raised her hands, counting them in, then she gestured towards Pearl. A low cello note sounded three times, Ema’s clarinet blending in seamlessly on the third. It was a slow, sleepy tune in the mid-register, and Maggey carefully coaxed the melody out of her viola, the rest of the string section floating in chords beneath it. This movement was the early start to a new day, and the harmonies were warm, in the way of the sun just risen. Strings and woodwind were interplaying through most of the opening movement, Lana weaving the parts between the two sections with graceful sweeps of her hands, and Miles was kept busy with the second flute line. But during the brief rest he had in which to swap to his oboe, he heard Mike and Phoenix inserting their barely audible trumpet harmony and smiled to himself, for it had to be the softest he’d ever heard it.

However, there was no time to think further on that, for he was coming in straight after them. It was the briefest of solos that he had, the strings overrunning it, and he played beneath them for a passage before switching back to his flute, the tone softening to allow the brass section to come more to the fore. Will had a solo on his French horn, and the woodwind section augmented it – then Ema borrowed the melody, a spark coming into her eye as she played. This was one of her favourite parts in the piece because she was playing a very devious role indeed; the tune was innocuous and repetitive, lulling the audience into believing that the movement was continuing. Lana’s baton waved languidly in the air, counting the time.

The strings came from _nowhere_ , forte, abrupt, a rude wakeup call that made the audience jump – as was Copland’s intention. Lana had flicked a single finger towards them to bring them in, and they had been poised, watching for it. It was time to start work, and Lana’s conducting came to life as the entire string section played together, an insistent, staccato arpeggio that incited responses from the other sections; clarinet, oboe and flute popped up one by one in response to points of the baton, and then they launched into the body of the second movement, the brass jumping in with a happy fanfare. They were all watching Lana like a hawk now, her animated hand signals kept them all together in what was a busy, busy section. It was kept moving mainly by strings and brass, but Miles had an oboe line that went all over the place, up above the stave and right down to the lowest note he could play, using his full range and keeping his fingers well occupied. Franziska was employing her timpanis with rhythmic precision, percussive thuds on beat with Diego’s double bass as he plunged down into the lower portion of the bass clef with his arpeggios. Miles heard them and his mind jumped back to what had happened before the interval, but that seemed like hours ago now, and he was soon pulled back into the flow of the movement, which was beginning to slow down in response to Lana’s gestures.

This lead in to the _moderato_ third movement – a tender, passionate piece representing a young bride and her farmer husband. The heat of their amour was conveyed by an intense theme in a minor key from the strings, heavy with vibrato, and a powerful trumpet solo that penetrated the auditorium and dominated the passage – possessive, protective. Miles was watching Lana and realised that she was raising one eyebrow, looking at him. Actually, he realised, she wasn’t looking at him – she was looking over his head, and then he began paying a little more attention to the trumpet solo and realised the timbre sounded a lot more like Phoenix’s trumpet than Mike’s. Mike wasn’t playing for some reason, and Miles wondered why, as the youth had been playing perfectly well in the earlier sections with no signs of any stage fright. He couldn’t turn around, so he watched Lana, and that told him the story, for she just shrugged slightly and carried on. Nothing was amiss, it seemed, so it looked as if the pair of them had just swapped parts for the hell of it. He had no time to dwell on it anyway - he and the others in the woodwind section had been kept to the background throughout most of this movement, but this upcoming andante passage gave them the opportunity to play its main motif and give the audience a bit of respite from the intensity of the preceding section. Miles quite liked the motif, though he didn’t have it for long, passing it straight over to Larry - who was a fraction late with his cue, but Miles always deliberately prolonged his last note to cover him so the audience were unlikely to notice.

Lana motioned to him as she passed her hands across to bring in the strings – he had the solo lead-in to the fourth movement so he needed to be ready. He put the reed against his tongue, closing his mouth to form his embrouchre, and then the baton came his way, flicking the route of the time signature to bring in his merry little dance of an entrance. Iris counterpointed it with the piccolo she had swapped over to – this was the start of the church congregation scene in the ballet _Appalachian Spring_ was scored for, and it took a lively call and response format. The melody was bouncy and the orchestra were animated to match – they enjoyed playing this and Lana had given up telling them off for nodding their heads in time with the music. Miles had long ago mastered the art of the deadpan performance, but still found it difficult to keep his oboe still like he was supposed to in this passage – the octave jumps and the catchy meter meant the bell of his oboe was bobbing up and down just like those of his clarinettist companions. Although he couldn’t see the audience with the arc lights in his face like this, he rather imagined they were all foot-tapping in time with this section too, especially when the cheerful trumpet line played over his head. Though with successive repetitions the fanfare became more heated, twisted into something more vehement, a brass-laden warning of the hellfire and damnation that would befall the preacher’s flock should they turn to sin. But the movement ended on a positive note, like the final blessing at the end of a service, and transitioned into a quieter bridging passage in which Miles had a calming oboe solo.

This, however, was just a brief respite from the pace – Miles barely had time to change over to his flute before Lana launched them into the dance of the bride, an immensely complicated, syncopated movement that occupied the full ability of the string section. Miles’ eyes flicked away from his sheet music and across the length of his flute he could see to where Maya and Pearl were sitting. Their fingers were furiously working the strings of their instruments, sweat pouring down their faces as they bowed their frenetic counterpoints, their notes slightly at odds with Diego’s bass and creating the rhythm they were all working to. Even Angel had a few beads of sweat on her forehead, though this was the only outward sign that she found the incredible number of string crosses in this passage an effort. Franziska, normally marking the time, was merely fitting in with this – any more complex percussion would have taken the focus away from the talent of the string section. It had taken months of rehearsal to perfect the split-second timings needed for this piece – if anyone fell out of time the entire sound became disjointed and grating. They didn’t really need the sheet music for this section in front of them – the orchestra knew this part by heart so they could devote their undivided attention to Lana’s hands, which held all of them together. It was an urgent piece, the allegretto string, flute and piccolo lines suppressed by loud, intense intrusions from the brass section that became more and more frequent, building to a percussive climax in which Franziska’s timpanis resounded in everyone’s ears, dominating even Dick’s tuba. She knew how to make herself heard when it counted.

It was a relief for them all to drop into a quieter section. This was slow, just a transitory movement to give the string section a chance to recover, but Miles appreciated the rest too – his head was spinning from oxygen deprivation, and despite Iris’ tutelage he still found this section tricky to breathe in. His ears were also ringing from the brass section’s contribution to that forte climax – he wasn’t sure where all that extra volume had come from as he’d never experienced that problem in rehearsals. Obviously they were giving it everything they had, just as he was.

And now, this was the iconic section, that Pearl always called ‘The Lord of the Dance’ despite Lana pointing out that the original Shaker theme was called ‘Simple Gifts’. Even if no one in the audience knew the other movements, they would know this one. It was used in adverts, movies, plagiarised for a stage musical (so Lana said, with contempt) and had been performed the world over. Lana had instructed them all to pull out all the stops for this one, and even Larry had taken this to heart. Lana had taken a risk by giving the opening solo to him, but he pulled it off with the light, impish flair that she had been looking for. Ema jumped in eagerly, the double layer of clarinet timbre brightening the melody. Miles and Iris were ornamenting it high up the register on flute and piccolo, but they were barely on the edge of hearing as Phoenix and Mike took to the fore, joining the clarinets on the melody line. This was supposed to be played by the oboe, but Lana had transposed it so Miles could stay on the flute – this passage was a busy one for woodwind and Iris was playing the piccolo for most of it, which meant he had to cover the flute parts.

Now the strings joined in, pizzicato clear and carrying above the rest. The moment they entered Miles was aware of a change, although he couldn’t quite identify it. There was nothing wrong with the music, or their playing, yet the sound they were all playing somehow sounded different. Will had a solo on his French horn, and Miles felt as if he were listening with a set of headphones on, the sound right in his ears and in a kind of depth he wasn’t sure that he’d been aware of before. He could appreciate the richness of the brass baritone Will was producing, but realised this wasn’t normal. With that he finally placed the source of this peculiar sensation – looking across at the string section he spotted Maya and Pearl, both playing with their eyes closed yet finding their notes with an uncanny precision that could only be the Kurain String Technique. If he was feeling it, no doubt the audience were too – and that meant they were listening in a way they’d never listened before; all the more reason to give them a performance to remember.

Swiftly he swapped to his oboe, and tackled the acciaccaturas in front of him with renewed spirit, dropping into the quickening rhythm set by the strings. The clarinets overtook him, the pace speeding up into a brassy, uplifting rendition of the theme, ringing out across the auditorium with a glittery accompaniment of filigree string scales. Fingers on strings were no more than blurs, the notes cascading forth to fill every corner of the room – but Lana’s hand zipped across their heads a few moments later and they immediately silenced, the brass cutting out also to let the woodwind surface and be heard. This was a quiet echo of the theme by Miles, Larry and Ema – simple, plain, and a reminder of the theme’s roots as a simple Shaker melody. With the strings dropping out of the picture Miles could hear the theme as they played it, unadorned by the Kurain String Technique. His eyes dropped closed, and he realised that even without Maya and Pearl accompanying, the sound they were producing was still something that touched an inner part of him, the part that just loved music in all its forms.

Their notes lingered, sustained, as behind them the orchestra took a collective breath, and together they launched into the triumphant finale to the movement. Lana drew herself up to her full height, making huge, grand sweeps of her arms as she conducted them, and their sound swelled to fill the rafters, bold and proclaiming. But this wasn’t the final movement – and though most of the orchestra fell silent after the last note of this finale, Ema and Larry’s clarinets still sounded to Lana’s baton, carrying that tone across into the closing movement of the piece.

Back when they’d first received the sheet music, Larry had asked the question:

“Why doesn’t it end at _Variations on a Shaker Melody_? The closing movement’s so dull – why not finish it on a high note?”

“Because it wouldn’t be finished, Butz,” Lana explained. “End it there, and the audience forgets how it all started half an hour ago. You have to remind them, and that’s a composer’s trick for long pieces – you can bring back those opening motifs at the end and make them sound new, while bringing it full circle.”

And so it was that they played this, the closing movement to _Appalachian Spring_. Although its motifs came from the first movement, they had a different meaning, a different accompaniment. These were weary strings, viola-led – a busy day was over at last. Woodwind lines slipped over each other in a warm rendition of satisfaction and contentment, slowing, slower, Lana’s gestures dropping to gradual waves of the baton. Now they were all barely audible, only Iris and her reprisal of the opening motif carried to the audience, and she passed that over to the more somnolent tones of Ema’s clarinet… until that too faded into the soft, sustained notes of the strings, Franziska’s glockenspiel sounding gently like the vestiges of a lullaby. Lana’s baton was barely moving now, and as Franziska tapped out the final A she brought her hands apart in a zip motion – silence. She stood, poised, the orchestra looking up at her. Her smile told her all that they needed to know, and then she turned away from them, to face the audience and bow, and that was when the applause flooded the concert hall, a tsunami of sound accompanied by the dull thuds of seats as some stood up to clap louder.

Miles could see the wave of heads as others in the audience took their cue and stood up as well. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Wahey, standing ovation!” he just managed to hear Ema’s exclamation over the roar of the applause, though he missed what she said after that.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and then Phoenix said loudly into his ear,

“We haven’t had one of those in years!”

“Start as we mean to go on?” he replied.

“Hell yeah – this is gonna be a good tour, I can feel it!”

“What happens now?” Miles asked, looking at the audience again.

“Huh?”

“Well, they’re still clapping – don’t we have to give them an encore?”

There was a pause, then Phoenix laughed.

“An encore? Guess you haven’t quite shaken off your Broadway roots yet!”

“…Oh.” Miles frowned. “Oh!” the penny dropped, and as the red curtain began to draw across the stage, Miles started laughing too.

The applause still continued for a few moments after the curtain had shut, the sound muffled by red velvet, then it died away and there was the sound of talking and people leaving their seats.

“Orchestra?” Lana addressed them. “You earned that standing ovation. Well done.”

“YEAH! We’re the best!” Larry whooped.

“Shhhh,” Ema smacked him on the head with her sheet music folder. “The audience are still leaving!”

“Still, we sure handed them their money’s worth, huh?” Dick looked very pleased with himself as he packed his tuba away – he had a case for it now. “I think that’s the best damn tuba I ever did play!”

“Maybe so, but applause doesn’t fill a hombre’s stomach, pardner,” Jake slapped him on the shoulder. “Food, ya reckon?” he addressed the others.

Maya’s ears pricked up at this.

“Food!” she gathered together her sheet music, packing it in the front of her violin case. “I’m _starving_! I could murder a burger and then some. What about you, Pearly?”

“Sleeeep,” Pearl murmured, hugging her cello case and resting her head against it. “Channelling that much music is hard work!”

“Aw, I’d be tired too if I wasn’t hungry. Hey, how about we get hot chocolate too?” Maya slung her violin case over one shoulder and stood up, extending a hand towards her cousin. “And you can have my marshmallows.”

“Oooh, hot chocolate,” Pearl slipped down from her seat, yawned, rubbed one eye, then picked up her cello case, taking Maya’s hand. “Can I really have your marshmallows?”

“Mike, you okay?” Phoenix was asking. “You look a bit dead on your feet.”

“I am a bit tired actually,” Mike closed the clasps of his trumpet case, then managed to drop it on his foot as he stood up. “Owww! Ah ah ah,” he retrieved it, hopping around a little. “That was a wakeup call…” he suppressed a yawn at the same time.

“I’ll run you to your place if you want to sleep,” Will offered. “I wanted to drop my horn at home before coming out for food anyway.”

Mike nodded sleepily, and the pair of them left.

“Woops,” Ema murmured. “I feel really bad now.”

“Bad about what?” Miles was stood next to her, packing up his oboe.

“Ah, er,” Ema closed up her clarinet case. “Well,” she lowered her voice, “I gave him one of sis’ Valium tablets before the concert. It was just to make sure he felt okay to play, as Nick wasn’t there to step in for the first half. I wasn’t expecting it to make him that sleepy!”

“You… oh, dear,” Miles sighed. “You’d better make it up to him sometime in the future. I’m sure he would’ve liked to celebrate with us after the concert.”

“Yeah, I know – I feel awful,” Ema was morose. “I think he would’ve been okay to play anyway, now the concert’s over and I’m looking back on it.”

“Well, you’ll apologise to him later, won’t you? And let him overcome his stage fright his own way in future.”

Ema nodded emphatically.

“And when we go to London,” she added, “I’m buying him the biggest fish supper I can get.”

“Fish supper?”

“He loves British fries… uh,” she corrected herself, “chips. They just don’t do them the same way in any other country!”

“Hm, I must’ve missed out on this when I was last there.”

“Oh, we know all the good places for takeout. We’ll educate you!”

“I think my heart attack risk factor just trebled with that promise of yours.”

“It’s a tasty downward spiral, trust me,” Ema grinned.

“Ready to go?” Phoenix asked them.

“I’m not that hungry,” Miles began-

“Well, you’re still coming for a drink!”

“But our Hanover flight leaves at five am tomorrow!”

“And? This is tradition!”

“What the hell kind of tradition is built on sleep deprivation?!”

“Think of it as preliminary training for the years of jet lag to come. This way!” Phoenix declared, taking him by the hand and leading him down the aisle of seats, following the rest of the orchestra through the wings and out of the concert hall, towards their favourite diner.

“God, what was I thinking, joining this orchestra?” Miles lamented.

“Don’t worry, by the end of the tour you’ll be as crazy as the rest of us. This is just the beginning!”

+++++++


	13. Coda (Epilogue)

_Kazefuyu Ryokan  
Fukuoka, Japan_

Phoenix shivered convulsively as he walked into the room.

“It’s _cold_ in here!”

“Agreed,” Miles was wrestling with the packaging of the device Lana had just given him. He'd just spent ages reading the instructions for it - it kept the inside of his oboe case at a constant temperature during the night and he wanted to be sure he set it up correctly, for it was a cold night. He was kneeling on the _tatami_ matting in his pajamas and bare feet, and that felt cold as well.

“It’s started snowing outside again,” Phoenix added, going to his suitcase in the corner and flicking open the battered catches on it. The handle was thick with old luggage labels, big fluorescent green and orange ones with various airport codes printed on the backs – LAX, LHR, NRT, SYD, and many more. “It’s been a while since we were last here in the winter – I’d forgotten how cold it gets here sometimes. I thought being in a more upmarket place would mean, you know, actual heating? But no such luck.”

“Well, there’s that,” Miles pointed at the low, flat table that lay in one corner of the room, a heavy-looking blanket folded up on the tabletop.

“Oh, the, uh…” Phoenix tried to remember the word. _Kotetsu_? _Kotatsu_? “Yeah, that thing – you’re meant to put the blanket over the top of the table and lie under it, then the heater underneath warms you up.”

“Sounds good to me,” Miles had gotten the heating device out of the packaging and tucked it inside his oboe case, running the power cord through the hole that had been drilled in there for that purpose. He connected the cord to the power adapter and plugged it into the wall, hearing a beep that indicated the device was working. He quickly shut the case to keep the heat in. That particular task done, he turned his attentions to setting out the futon that had been left out for him. Phoenix was trying to change into his pajamas while exposing as little skin as possible to the cold. By the time he’d done that, Miles had set up the table heater and was pushing his futon underneath it.

“Hey, what about me?” Phoenix protested, for there was only enough room for one futon beneath it.

“There’s room for you,” Miles was already sliding himself underneath the blanket, but he moved over to one side.

Phoenix grinned, padding across the tatami to crawl in beside him. His eyes half-closed in bliss, for there was nothing like the warmth of shared body heat, but there was a sharp intake of breath from Miles.

“Your feet are _freezing_!”

“Oops, sorry,” Phoenix had brushed his bare ankle by mistake, so he obligingly moved his cold feet out of the way. “Mmm,” he murmured, “tired now.”

Miles felt tired too. They shouldn’t be feeling tired, he knew, for back in Los Angeles the day was just beginning. But the plane flight had been long and neither of them had slept thanks to the gaggle of Japanese schoolgirls sitting behind them chattering excitedly.

“ _Ohayou_ , Miles,” Phoenix said, closing his eyes.

“Uh… excuse me?”

“Good night, that means.”

“No it doesn’t. You just said good morning. You actually mean _oyasumi_.”

“Do I?” Phoenix opened his eyes and reached above him for the phrase book he’d left on top of the table. It was dogeared, well-travelled like his suitcase. He flicked to the correct page. “Oh yeah, so I do.”

“You’ve come here how many times, and you still haven’t learn the basic greetings?”

“Ah, I forget – it all becomes one big moon language after a while anyway. If you just mumble and point that gets you most things, no matter which country you’re in.”

Miles just shook his head, went to turn over onto his side and found that he couldn’t because there wasn’t enough room under the table. This could take some getting used to. He remained lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. In the silence that settled between them, he could hear sounds coming from the next room. Rustling, then abruptly, a drawn out moan.

“What the…?”

“Angel,” Phoenix said simply. “She’s scored already and we’ve only been here five minutes!”

“And the whole place is going to know about it – she’ll get us thrown out.”

“Don’t think so. That’s the ryokan manager in there, I’m pretty sure.”

“Heavens.”

They lay there, eyes closed, but the racket did nothing to aid sleep.

“Your solo was good tonight,” Miles commented sleepily.

“Oh, it was nothing to write home about,” Phoenix said, trying to be modest, but a smile had spread across his face.

“Well, I suppose you did flub that time change in the third passa -!” he broke off in a gasp, eyes flying open as cold feet pressed against his ankle, hitching up the leg of his pajama pants to get at his bared shin. “C-cold! Stop it!” he kicked at the offending chilly feet.

“What was that you said?”

A cold hand fished its way under his pajama top to rest on his stomach.

“Agh! A good solo – nothing less!” he pushed at the hand, which removed itself. “Why are you so bloody cold?” Miles glowered at him.

“Because I’m not getting any loving to warm me up,” Phoenix said, injecting a piteous note into his voice.

“And you think sounding that pathetic will get you any?”

“No, but this might-“

“HANDS OFF! OFF!” Phoenix had wriggled his hands under Miles’ pajama top, cupping them right over his nipples, and Miles was clawing at them to try and prise them off, shivering convulsively at the touch of Phoenix’s cold fingers. He finally got a hold of them, gripping them and pulling them away, keeping them held in his hands to try and warm up the frozen fingers. Phoenix inched a little closer.

“My nose is really cold too. It’s like an Eskimo nose. Hey, do you know how Eskimos say hello to each other?”

“Yes, and no, we’re not. You’re going to keep your iceblock appendages to yourself and let me sleep.”

“Angel’s gone on all night in the past, you know.”

The grip on his hands loosened for a minute as this sank in. Another long groan came from next door.

“And she makes that noise… every time?”

“She gets louder.”

“Oh, dear God.”

Miles pulled on one hand, stretching Phoenix’s arm over him and lifting himself up on one elbow to allow Phoenix’s other arm to pass underneath him. They wriggled closer in an embrace, Phoenix’s head resting on Miles’ shoulder. The warmth they generated made their thoughts wander and their eyes heavy, half-closing, but sleep was still not forthcoming. The noise continued.

“Do you think they’d hear us when they’re making so much racket themselves?” Miles’ question was an idle one but contained a hint of suggestion.

“It might tire us out enough that we can ignore it.”

“Mm.” Miles stretched a hand out, inserting it inside Phoenix’s pajama top to circle one finger slowly on his chest. “You keep those cold hands to yourself till they’ve warmed up, mind.”

“Roger that, maestro,” Phoenix said, kissing his neck. They were sleepy kisses – soft and clumsy.

“Your nose is like an _ice-cube_ on my neck.”

“Geez, there’s no pleasing some people.”

Miles bent down, bringing his other hand up to Phoenix’s face to lift it up so he could kiss him, breathing out a little to try and warm the cold nose touching his cheek. “You’d probably think there was something wrong with me if I wasn’t grumbling at you all the time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Phoenix said around the kiss. “You’ve changed a lot, y’know.”

“For the better?”

Phoenix just winked at him, his lips brushing Miles’, then his tongue was in and they stopped talking altogether.

~Fin~  


And last but not least, here is a little mini trumpet-playing Phoenix, drawn by [](http://cannedebonbon.livejournal.com/profile)[**cannedebonbon**](http://cannedebonbon.livejournal.com/)!


	14. Commentary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was discussing with somebody the concept of fic commentary - when it was necessary, what should go in it, and so on. I've put all the necessary information in the authors notes at the beginning of each chapter, but if you're interested to read a little more about the writing of Da Capo Al Fine then you can find some oddments of commentary here. If you have any questions or critique feel free to leave a message :)

I hit on the idea of a church as the Travelling Symphony’s rehearsal hall because the acoustics in such buildings are perfect for performing music. Of course, it’s no wonder, given the heavy reliance on organ music and choral singing for worship. But there was another reason I chose a church as the venue - most of the small scale concerts I’ve been to have taken place in church halls. Such a place is ideal for an orchestra the size of the Travelling Symphony. They’d be a bit lost in anything larger, I think. Researching the patron saints of music convinced me that I’d made the right choice, given one of them was St. Gregory, who shares his name with Edgeworth’s father! Their statuette poses (playing a lute, and working on sheet music) in the church description of Chapter One are their recognised emblems. As an aside, you have to be a good musician to play in a church. The echoes mean any imprecise notes are very obvious too, so their ability to rehearse in there is probably a tribute to their skills.

I wanted Phoenix and Edgeworth to be alone when they first met each other, to give Edgeworth an abrupt wakeup call as to what he’s letting himself in for by joining this merry little band, and to bring across the character of Phoenix as a trumpet player. Phoenix is there to shatter the silence and bring about change, as he does with his very first appearance, buzzing away on the mouthpiece on his trumpet - as trumpet players often do when they’re putting their instrument together. Smelly brass polish and Phoenix’s reliance on the bus services made a great excuse for him to be there early, and giving him the key to the church made certain that he’d always be the last to leave, allowing for a situation like what happened between Miles and Iris in a later chapter.

I haven’t really gone into the backstories of Miles and Phoenix overmuch. As revealed in the story, Phoenix used to be a busker, which fitted in with his down-to-earth regard of things and lackadaisical approach to performance, and also accounts for his lack of music theory knowledge. And of course, it mirrors his poverty in the games XD As for how he managed to pass his diploma with such woeful theory knowledge, the ABRSM decrees that a musician must pass an exam in theory, practical musicianship or jazz before being able to progress to the advanced grades (6 and beyond). Needless to say, Phoenix would have gone for the jazz exam, in which most of the marks come from improvisation, and thereby avoided the theory altogether!

Miles you know a little more about. I’m sure being in a Broadway orchestra is nothing like as bad as I’ve made it out to be, but having performed in amateur dramatics for a little while now, I’ve had firsthand experience of how cliquey showbusiness can get. Thespians and musicians aren’t exactly a world apart in terms of artistic and personality clashes, so I figured life in the orchestra pit wouldn’t be that much different. Miles would be unlikely to want any part in the kind of behind-the-back rumourmongering and criticism that can take place in that kind of environment, given his attitude in the games towards spurious stories and Oldbag-style ranting. And as he is so guarded about his feelings and personal history he would most probably just come to the performances, play, and leave without interacting with any of the others. Being with his bandmates for only three hours a night would make it pretty easy to get through performance runs with a minimal amount of social interaction. His situation is rather different to the high profile he had in the games as the Demon Prosecutor – but I tried to maintain his singular drive and aloofness in order to bridge the gap.

Miles and Phoenix have never met before, in this AU. I toyed with the idea of making it so they had – perhaps they studied at music school together, or played in the orchestra at elementary school. But it just didn’t work – in the games Phoenix chased Miles into his profession, and there was no way that it would be the other way around. I wanted to preserve the spirit of the games rather than make Miles and Phoenix act out of character, and there’s no way Miles would have auditioned for the Travelling Symphony if he knew Phoenix previously and realised he was there. Equally to have Phoenix being the new arrival to the Symphony with Miles already being a member of the orchestra wasn’t suitable either. It would take the focus away from Miles and being there already would remove most of his incentive for change. So I started with a clean slate, and everything seemed to fit together well enough to compensate for this deviation from canon.

However, I did include other aspects from Phoenix and Miles’ respective game storylines, the deaths of Mia and Gregory being the main ones. As Phoenix’s mentor I felt Mia was important to include, and Gregory was essential for setting Miles down the road that he’s on. Miles needed a role model, and so I made Gregory an oboist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic orchestra – the larger, glossier, more professional counterpart to the Travelling Symphony. This brings in the significance of the oboe Miles plays on – something I wanted brought across early on. As readers already know what happens to Gregory in the games, I could introduce the engraved plaque on Miles’ oboe case in Chapter Two and immediately have the reader understand what it stood for, and in turn see where a lot of Miles’ motivation and drive comes from. This allowed me to insert the scene in which Miles actually receives the oboe much later on in the story, where it actually became relevant.

It was difficult to decide which side characters I wanted to include as members of the orchestra. The regulars were a definite, I had a good handle on their personalities which made it easier to write them. But I also wanted to give a few of the more rarely written characters a bit of a cameo too, hence choosing Mike Meekins, Will Powers and Angel Starr. I wanted the brass section to be a really motley collection that Lana had to shout at all the time, hence choosing the likes of Gumshoe, Jake, Will and Mike, all of whom are a bit hopeless/rebellious in their own way. In my school orchestra it was nearly always the brass section that came in late or played too loud or were talking amongst themselves when they were supposed to be playing, so I tried to capture a bit of that. Since writing Mike and Will I think the two of them would be really good pals if they ever met in canon!

Dahlia and Iris I initially put in just to have two flautists – Dahlia’s significance in the storyline I didn’t really decide on till much later. I enjoyed writing Iris, actually – I’ve never written her before and it was good to get to grips with her personality. Being so underdeveloped in the games made it a bit easier to mould her to the AU. I think the flute really suits her as an instrument – dainty and pretty, but more than capable of standing independently as a powerful solo instrument. In an odd way it also suited Dahlia, just because it contrasted so much with her true personality, though I brought the two elements together by having her using her flute as a weapon in chapter six. There were actually a pair of identical twins in my school orchestra, who both played clarinet, but I thought the clarinet suited Ema and Larry better, hence not giving those to the twins.

Pairing Larry and Ema on instruments turned out to be a good idea because their bickering personalities made for some good comedy moments. As for Franziska, I’m not quite sure why I put her on percussion. I just needed a percussionist because there’s a busy line in Appalachian Spring, and I suppose Franziska does kind of suit it, given her whip-cracking tendencies and insistence on precision and perfection. I didn’t give her as much page time as the other characters – she just didn’t seem to interact so well with them for the most part so I let her take a bit of a back seat. It was handy to have her absent during the beginning of the concert as I think she’s the only one who would have wanted to dob Miles and Phoenix in for nicking off in the middle of the concert. Not to mention it was her timpanis they were taking cover behind!

Lana was also interesting to write for the first time. I picked her as the conductor because it suited her authoritarian personality so well – who else would be able to keep such a ragtag bunch in line to make good music? XD This in turn gave me clarinettist Ema, and made Gant the natural choice for orchestra director. Though I omitted any sinister backstory and indeed Gant doesn’t actually make a direct appearance, I tried to show that Gant still had control of things behind the scenes, with the choice of Miles’ solo piece and running auditions etc. I tried to bring out some of Lana’s softer side as the story progressed as well. Her tendency to self-blame comes through a bit in the scene where she announces that they’re not playing Appalachian Spring anymore, and I tried to convey her attachment to the orchestra beneath her brisk manner, to match with the way she is towards Ema in 1-5.

I watched the Gyakuten Meets Orchestra concert DVD, and the principal conductor in that is how I imagine Lana when she’s conducting – expressing the mood of the music just as much as the orchestra does. I focused on her quite a bit in the Appalachian Spring performance in the final chapter because I wanted to show how much the orchestra rely on her direction to produce the wonderful music that they play. Some of the passages in Appalachian Spring are immensely difficult in execution and without a conductor to keep the orchestra together it simply wouldn’t work.

I think the most difficult parts of the fic to write were the scenes where Phoenix and Miles were alone together. They weren’t meant to have as many confrontations as happened in the fic – the first one was planned, the rest just kind of happened. In particular the one in Chapter Eight about Miles’ flute diploma, that started off life as Miles just snapping at Phoenix, turning to leave, then feeling uncomfortable enough to turn back and apologise. But it just didn’t feel right – there were things left unsaid, further for it to go. So I let it go, take its natural course. And ended up with this monstrous dialogue sequence that needed so much tweaking to make it right. I deleted it a few times, put back in what I had to begin with – but that wasn’t right either. It took weeks and weeks of reworking to make it acceptable.

That aside, a lot of the plot elements of Da Capo just fell into place. I can’t even claim it to be part of any grand design – I needed explanations for things, and they just popped into my head and seemed to work, so I used them. I needed a reason for Dahlia to want to change her current situation and damage the instruments the way she did, knowing there was no turning back, and that’s how her backstory came about. Dahlia and Iris swapping places also fitted in with the canon of the games too. It does cost a heck of a lot of money to take the diploma exam, so Iris’ comment that she and Dahlia couldn’t afford to retake it if they failed was a valid one.

The one thing I thought I would have the most difficulty with was pulling off the scene in which Phoenix finally gets Miles on his own to confess to him. The setup was utterly contrived, it seemed to me – but I suppose you could argue that because Maya and Ema had a hand in it, yes, it was, which works from a characterisation perspective. The difficulty I had here was putting across to the reader the impression that Miles would have walked away from the confession in any other setting – this was Phoenix’s perception, and I needed to convey that to get the to reader understand why he’s taken such a ridiculous and desperate step. While at the same time putting forward Miles’ contrasting view – that he’s gay and perhaps wouldn’t have turned Phoenix down in a normal setting after all, contrary to what Phoenix thinks. Bringing across the two viewpoints while maintaining the third person was really difficult for me and so I hope you as a reader were able to understand both sides so that their reactions are believable.

Understandably Miles would be absolutely livid that Phoenix had deprived him of the chance to play in his very first concert with the Travelling Symphony, and I tried not to sugarcoat that – but Miles is a logical individual and I thought being presented with such a desperate action on Phoenix’s part would make him sit up and think about what kind of image he’d been putting across to Phoenix to drive him to that. Phoenix’s mistaken belief that Miles would turn him down or ignore him was the key to the whole thing – without that the circumstances wouldn’t have worked, and Phoenix probably wouldn’t have said yes to Maya and Ema’s crazy plan in the first place.

As for the orchestra’s reactions, I made my life easier by eliminating the only person liable to complain, namely Franziska. The rest, as you’ve read, are fairly unfussed –you can rather imagine that, having played together as long as they have, they’re used to looking out for one another. All kinds of things can happen during concerts – strings can break, people can fall ill, personal conflicts can interfere etc. And in an orchestra as adaptable as the Travelling Symphony, who have never been a full complement and are forever playing parts transposed for other instruments, covering for each other comes pretty naturally.

The one difference here is that Lana is normally clued into all of this kind of thing – she’d know straight away if somebody wasn’t there or if someone missed a note. Hence there was no way I could have her conducting at the time Phoenix and Miles disappeared; she had to be absent. This was where the sponsorship meeting came in. The concept fitted as a whole because, as I’ve emphasised throughout the fic, the Travelling Symphony is short on numbers and a bit poor – anything that would raise its profile or earn it more funding would be the sole reason for Lana giving up her space at the conductor’s dais, and even then, only if somebody suitable would be willing to step in. Thus Alexei Georgiy appeared, and this allowed Ema and Maya to pull off their deception.

So that’s how Miles and Phoenix got together in this crazy AU-verse. I hope it passed muster. The behind-the-timpanis sequence was actually pretty fun to write simply because of setting it to music. I had to be careful because the mood changed depending on which sections of the music I was listening to – I replayed the opening movements to the Toccata quite a lot when I was writing Edgeworth’s initial anger towards Phoenix, to help influence the tension. Before it devolves into smut XD As for the epilogue… I could’ve turned it into buttsex – I’ve had my rite of passage with Dogsbody after all – but it just seemed unneeded at that juncture. I’d said what I wanted to say, so it felt right to end it there. And I guess that’s where I’ll end this too. Thanks for reading, and sticking with me for the last year and a half despite my horribly infrequent updates. I’m sad it’s over, but glad because I can get started on other fic projects – so don’t worry, you haven’t read the last of me!


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